


Count Up All the Chances That Were Lost

by coffee_mage, grison, Polaris



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: (that's right dick sleeves exist), Aleta: The Happening, Alien Biology, Apologies, Character's "No" Obeyed, Dick Sleeves, Dildos, Leather gloves, M/M, Making things right, Martinex T'Naga: Sex Boy Scout, Marty Has No Dick, Marty Is a Guilty Popsicle, Porn Written By Committee, Porn Written by Aces, Pouch Play, Product of the Fourth, Reunions and Reconciliations, Sex Toys, Stone Top, Unstoppable Neuroses Meet Emotional Constipation, Whatever the opposite of improvised sex toys is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 00:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14201595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_mage/pseuds/coffee_mage, https://archiveofourown.org/users/grison/pseuds/grison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polaris/pseuds/Polaris
Summary: “We never did go take care of that asshole who’d been paying Udonta in the first place. Let’s go track him down, see if we can’t shake any answers out of him.”Martinex raises his eyebrows. “Just answers?”Stakar looks suddenly fifteen years younger and fifteen times as vicious. “Nah. Whatever Yondu did or didn’t do, that a-hole killed plenty of them kids. I reckon that makes him fair game.” His lips twist in a sharp, nasty curve like one of Aleta’s fancy blades. “Let’s go extract some debt from that bastard.”





	Count Up All the Chances That Were Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [questionsthemselves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsthemselves/gifts).



> HaviCat had a rough day as a result of someone using the bookmarks function here on the Archive to be pretty fucking rude, so we thought we'd bandy together and write him a little something nice to make up for it out of loving, protective spite.
> 
> Then we abruptly, collectively realized that what had originally been intended as a PWP had mutated into 13,000 words of slow pining and hadn't yet gotten to the sodomy, so we tried to get right on that and then doubled our word count. So. Uh, how 'bout that.
> 
> The title is courtesy of Polaris and, of course, comes from the inimitable Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back To Me Now." You're all welcome for getting that stuck in your head, unless of course you are too young to remember it in which case it's dubious whether you should be reading this fic.

It’s Yondu’s eyes that stay with him, after.

After they stomp away with their righteous anger, after they gather the rest of their guys and fire up the M-ships. After they get back and Martinex is laying alone in his bunk having what should be a good night’s sleep.

He hasn’t seen Yondu for a while.

More than a while, if he’s being honest. He knows Stakar’s seen Yondu since the exile, but Marty’s always managed to avoid it before now.

He’d forgotten. Never the big things, like the crooked grin or the sound of his voice, but details. The webbing of scars along his head. The _scent_ of him, like booze and sweat. His eyes.

Marty never in a million years thought he could forget the exact shape and color of Yondu’s eyes.

He fluffs his pillow. Rolls over. Heaves a sigh. Tries to forget the slump of Yondu’s shoulders and the way he’d wilted under Stakar’s judgment.

The Yondu he remembers never cowered.

It doesn’t sit right, somehow. Marty’s never had a reason to question Stakar before, but something about this won’t leave him alone. He can’t get that last look out of his head. The hopeless _ache_ on Yondu’s face right before Marty turned and left.

It resonates with something deep in his gut, makes him wonder what it is that Yondu’s seen and done, what he’s had to sacrifice to keep some semblance of a crew together. Stakar had driven the _Eclector_ to the fringes and Yondu is a predator left to scavenge. It’s a mess. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to forget the ghost of Yondu, younger and bolder, superimposed over the defeat that wafted from Yondu like cologne.

Time ticks by slowly, each measure drawn long and slow. His species comes from a planet with longer days than any shift on the Starhawk and the nights usually seem to speed by.  The harder he tries to stop thinking about Yondu, the longer each measure seems until he opens his eyes and checks his wristcomm to see that no time at all has passed since he laid down.

He’s stood by Stakar through decades of decisions, even some that he momentarily questioned. This doesn’t feel like one of those, though. There’s a sense of wrong that leaves him winded. Yes, Stakar enforced the Code with Yondu, as he had to. There’s no Code without enforcement, after all. The rules must be followed. There must be consequences, harsh ones for the deeper transgressions.

He sits up and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. The trouble with consequences is that they need to fit the crime. Martinex cannot think, though he tries, of a single time where someone sat down and figured out the depths of Yondu’s Code-breaking. No one has taken the time to hear him out and if he’s asking for that, after all these years…

Maybe it’s time someone heard him out.

“Hell,” he mutters, pushing himself up off his bunk. He needs to go talk to Stakar.

* * *

“No,” Stakar says. “I’m not listening to excuses he’s had twenty-six years to rehearse. He had his chance and he broke the Code. He’s done. He doesn’t get to come grovelling now.”

Marty sets his jaw. “Did he seem full of bullshit to you? Something wasn’t right, Cap’n.”

“What wasn’t right was him thinking his crew had rights to use the same spaces as real Ravagers.”

“Have I ever questioned you before?” asks Marty. “I’m telling you something seemed wrong. Now, if you investigated the details and I didn’t know about it, I’ll drop it, but I don’t think we ever looked past what he admitted.” He narrows his eyes.

“Because he admitted it!” Stakar glares at him, and Marty can see it now in the lines of his face.

Fear.

Somehow that bolsters him. If Stakar was really sure, he wouldn’t be scared. “We never did, did we?” he asks softly.

Stakar won’t meet his eyes.

“Something’s not right,” he repeats. He knows he’s right, and he’s known Stakar long enough that he can see the exact moment when Stakar decides Marty’s right, even if he knows Stakar won’t back down yet.

“It’s been _decades_. It’s too late.”

“He’s alive. You’re alive. It’s not even getting close to too late.”

Stakar wavers, and Martinex presses the advantage. “Besides, if you _were_ right—think about the high ground that will give you the next time you have to argue with Aleta.” Marty pauses, thinking about how to word this. “Look. Either way, you win. One way, you get a _really_ good bargaining chip the next time Aleta loses her temper and tells you your judgement is full of shit in the middle of a full captains’ council, right?”

Stakar’s eyes flit to Marty’s sourly. “I’m listening.”

Martinex briefly wishes he had lips to thin, like the organics do. It would have been apt, here, as he sees his advantage and hopes to hell his aim is true. “And if you’re wrong—if _we_ were wrong… we might get him back.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; Stakar’s already rigid back snaps into a rictus that wouldn’t look out of place on a week-old corpse. “You’re forgetting _he confessed._ You think I don’t miss him? You think it didn’t _kill me_ to declare him a Code-breaker? Why do you suddenly think he’s innocent, in contradiction of the man’s _own admission_ , twenty years after the judgement was said and gone?” he snarls.

Martinex hisses in frustration. He’s always hated that teakettle sound, adding insult to injury every time he gets mad enough to think about losing his temper. “Hope’s scary. Look, Cap’n, it took guts to beg like that, in front of all the crew and all— _that_ crew, no less, which is as lean and hungry-looking as I’ve ever seen. He had to have had a reason to think you’d listen.”

Stakar scowls. “Guts ain’t the same as honor. You _know_ that, same as me, same as _anyone_ who follows the Code. I learned a long time ago that you can’t play fast and loose with laws—why didn’t _he_?”

"I don't know, but I would've thought _you'd_ come up with the answer by now, the number of times Aleta's asked you that." It’s a low blow, and all the air goes out of Stakar. Marty’s too d’ast tired to care. “All I’m saying is that people don’t beg like that if they went ahead and broke the rules on purpose, like we thought. I want to know more.”

Stakar sags like all his strings’ve been cut—or, Martinex thinks uncharitably, as if someone's pulled the stick he usually keeps in his colon to prop his spine up when he doesn’t want to do something and thinks he should. “Why you gotta bring up old wounds that ought to be dead and gone? They hurt then, and they’re gonna hurt now. No matter what we find, it’s going to hurt everyone. Why not just leave healed flesh well alone instead of fishing around with a scalpel?”

Martinex knows he’s won with the certainty of forty years of experience. “I want to know because if it healed wrong, I want to make sure it sets right. I want to know because if _I_ fucked up,” he pounds his chest in a pointed inversion of the Code’s salute, “I want to know about it. And I want to know because I miss him, and _you_ miss him, and _Aleta_ misses him and Krugarr and Mainframe and Charlie miss him and _the fleet’s not the same as it was without him_ , and if that didn’t have to happen I at least want to _know_ about it!”

“I… Flark.” Stakar’s face falls into his hands, hiding his eyes. “...okay.” He crooks one huge finger, staring up through it at Martinex. “But this stays between you and me. No one else. Not until we figure out where we’re goin’ looking.”

He considers for a moment. “And one more thing. You do know that whatever you and I find out, it won’t fix anything. There’s still twenty years dead and gone between you now and the you you were back then, and whatever we find out won’t bring those young idiots back.”

Martinex snorts. “There’s a damn sight more than twenty years ahead of me, too. I want to make sure I ain’t regretting those years like I’m scared I might regret these. You scared?”

Stakar huffs through his fingers. “Terrified. Let’s go poke some shit that sane men would leave buried.” He thinks for a moment. “We never did go take care of that asshole who’d been paying Udonta in the first place. Let’s go track him down, see if we can’t shake any answers out of him.”

Martinex raises his eyebrows. “Just answers?”

Stakar looks suddenly fifteen years younger and fifteen times as vicious. “Nah. Whatever Yondu did or didn’t do, that a-hole killed plenty of them kids. I reckon that makes him fair game.” His lips twist in a sharp, nasty curve like one of Aleta’s fancy blades. “Let’s go extract some debt from _that_ bastard.”

* * *

There’s a little snag in their brilliant plan; they have to _find_ the asshole before they can shake him down. Stakar sends out inquiries to their usual sources, but as the replies start to filter in, the fact is that not a lot of people have more than heard of this guy. _Ego_ is the name that gets whispered a few times, but there are other names too.

It just cements Marty’s conviction that this is bigger and weirder than they’d first suspected.

“Maybe we need to talk to Tivan,” he suggests.

Stakar makes a face, and Marty gets it, he does; none of them like that smarmy bastard and his cryptic bullshit and his slaves. But when something gets weird, the Collector can be relied on to know what’s up.

Stakar tries calling first. It’s usually a no-go, but neither of them particularly want to haul their cookies to Knowhere if they have another choice.

They don’t. “Oh, my friends,” says Tivan in his oily smooth voice, “what you are asking I’m afraid I can only reveal in person. And,” he adds, “for a price.”

Stakar’s smile is a baring of teeth more than anything. “Right.”

So it looks like they’re going to Knowhere. Stakar enters the route in their navs, scowling the whole time. Tivan’s information costs more than his fuel, and that’s saying something.

* * *

 

Martinex has been to Knowhere more times than he cares to count. With as long as his species can live, and the way the skull is slowly decaying, he thinks he might just outlive it. Knowhere’s disgusting even by Ravager standards. Tonight, it’s making Marty dream of a beautiful universe where he steals as much as he wants and never has to end up knee-deep in a rot-hole ever again.

The walk from the docks to Tivan’s little museum or warehouse or whatever it’s called isn’t pleasant, and the less he thinks about what’s seeping into his sock, the better. Stakar, of course, can’t let him forget it and won’t _drop it_ until they’re walking up to Tivan’s front door. As the door swings open, Martinex makes a mental note to put his socks on Stakar’s pillow when they get back to the M-Ship. A mere instant later, this is forgotten.

Tivan’s collection is in shambles. The cages and specimen jars are in pieces. Someone has made a token effort to sweep debris into a corner, at least, but it’s obvious that something bad happened. Judging from the way that Tivan has actually answered the door for himself, his little slave girls have either been killed or run off in whatever chaos caused this.

“What _happened_?” Stakar asks, taken aback. Martinex doesn’t blame him. They may not like Tivan, but they’ve had to visit him enough times over the years that this gives Martinex a bad feeling. Stakar’s always been more superstitious and he can only imagine that Stakar’s freaking out on the inside.

“I had an incident,” Tivan says. “An item I had intended to add to my collection turned out to be more volatile than anticipated.”  He kicks a broom out of the way as he strides through the remains of his collection.

“What the hell were you trying to collect that did this? A set of broken atoms?” Stakar picks nervously over the shattered remains of some kind of containment device. Marty hopes to god that whatever used to hold it was neutralized in the explosion—the scorch marks scratching across the interior of the device’s curves promise nothing good.

“Never you mind,” Tivan snaps, his composure slipping for a split second before his irritating cool superiority steals back across his face. Dick. He reaches his apparent definition before turning to smile beatifically at them. “My payment, gentlemen?”

Stakar snorts and tosses him a unit chit, which quickly disappears into one of Tivan’s billowing sleeves. “You got anything useful on this _Ego_ bastard? Or, uh…” he glances at his wristpad for his notes, “Vagus, or Caela? Asshole had more names than a bad con man with a short attention span.”

Tivan sniffs, presumably taking offense at the implication that multiple names are anything less than utterly and completely dignified. Martinex hopes he chokes on it. “I am familiar with the gentleman in question, yes. What do you want to know?”

Stakar grits his teeth. “First, where do we find him?” He pauses and thinks, glancing at Marty before he adds, “And if you got it—do you know anything about the dealings he had with Yondu Udonta, back when the man was still running with us?” Martinex is surprised he’d ask Tivan, but it makes sense: the man keeps his long, creepy, spindly fingers in all kinds of pies, and he knows an awful lot more than anyone has any right to about where the fruit comes from in those pies and who winds up eating them besides. It’s worth asking, even if it’s risky showing that much of their hand.

Tivan fixes Stakar with the kind of look that’s always made Martinex wonder if the Collector was telepathic, then shrugs. “The answer to the first is usually relatively simple. The second, well. The price on that is well and away above my usual fees. The answer you’re looking for is made up of some rather… sensitive information.”

“I’ve already paid plenty.” Stakar crosses his arms and looks unimpressed.

“Well then, let me give you the coordinates and you can be on your way.” Tivan taps his wristpad and begins to turn. He’s always been good at getting the upper hand in a deal. Someday, Martinex is going to kick his ass and get the information without the fees. Tivan is too on-edge to consider it this time. Martinex doesn’t want to find out what pieces of his security system are still here.

“Fine,” Martinex says, ignoring the way Stakar glances at him irritably. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a chit of his own. It’s tempting to throw it at the side of Tivan’s head, but he lets Tivan turn and doesn’t hit him with it.

Tivan examines it briefly, then tucks it away. “And half as much again,” he says, holding out his hand.

“No,” Stakar says. “We’ve been more than generous already.”

“Hm. Shame. Then this is all you get for that price.” Tivan smiles viciously. “Tell Peter Quill that he won’t escape the repair bills for long.”

Martinex tilts his head to the side slightly. That’s cryptic even by Tivan’s standards. “That’s not what I paid for.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I paid for usable information.”

Tivan looks them both up and down and then laughs. “You haven’t even done basic research! Let me… how do your kind say it… throw you a skeleton? Yes. Let me throw you a skeleton. As it turns out, it would have served me very well to add Quill to my collection. I should have scanned him, but Yondu paid me a significant sum to stop scanning his crew, right about the time you and he had your little falling out. I just assumed his people were carrying more weaponry in case they needed to defend themselves from your lot... I should have broken the deal. Shame, really... Now, show yourselves out. I have better things to do.”

Marty looks at Stakar. The bastard’s told them next to nothing, and for a shitload of money to boot. “What kind of basic research do you suggest we do?” he asks through gritted teeth.

Tivan smiles. “I gave you a name, didn’t I? I assumed you had it already, but it seems I gave you something for nothing, doesn’t it?”

“So you think we should chase down some guy we’ve never heard of, then what, come back and ask you for more information?” Stakar asks.

“Has your entire fleet been hiding on the fringes without so much as a comm system?”

“You know what we’ve been up to. You always do,” Stakar says.

“Then it’s not my fault you don’t know that name. Anyone else would… It’s sad, really. But for another half payment, I’ll give you the information that’s going to make it make sense.”

Stakar glances at Martinex. Marty shakes his head. If Tivan’s in a half-fact kind of mood, paying him more isn’t going to get them anywhere. But if he’s lost most of his toys, he’s probably bored and he might just play with them if they try to walk away. It’s a gamble, but they’ve always been better at gambling than Aleta.

As one, they turn and head for the door. Martinex falls into step with Stakar perfectly. They’ve rehearsed this move for decades, even before Stakar made captain. It’s so fluid and perfect that anyone watching would think they were a completely united front. It works for them and it makes people throw in last-minute offers, thinking they’re walking away from the deal.

It works for them again just as Martinex reaches for the door handle. Tivan coughs from behind them. In unison, they turn.

“Yes?” Stakar asks.

“To be so close to what you seek, and for so long...with no idea.” Tivan shakes his head like he’s not the one on the ropes. “It’s remarkable. Really. You can’t even follow your own Code as well as Quill does.”

Stakar goes rigid, and Marty suppresses a similar reaction. He hates giving Tivan the satisfaction, but damn, the man is good at dropping little bombs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The bastard has the gall to smirk at them. “Exactly what it says.” Then he fucking _vanishes,_ like something out of a Contraxian magic show.

“I really hate that asshole,” mutters Stakar. Martinex can't help but agree.

“So what _is_ that supposed to mean?” Marty asks quietly.

Stakar’s got that constipated look on his face, the one Yondu and Aleta used to make fun of. It’s still there when they get back to their M-ship and away from Tivan’s cryptic bullshit.

“Who the hell is Quill,” he mutters to himself, “and how does he know jack shit about our Code?”

Martinex doesn’t have an answer, but he’s running the same question over in his head.

Martinex shrugs. “Some public figure, maybe? We could try putting it to a search, see what pops up?”

“He can’t be that public, or we’d know about him already.” Stakar starts poking his wristpad anyway, though.

Something connects. “Yondu’s crew.”

“What?” Stakar looks up from his wristpad.

“Quill is one of Yondu’s crew. Remember? He said Yondu made him stop scanning crew so he never got a chance to—” Marty makes a face— “add Quill.”

Stakar stares at him.

Marty stares back, then starts frantically tapping his own wristpad. “Yondu helped with that whole flarking mess on Xandar. It made it into all the holofeeds… I bet we can find a crew roster there and figure out who Quill is. Xandarians eat up that named hero thing like no one else.”

He scrolls through feeds. Yes, yes, the Udonta Clan this, the Udonta Clan that. A quote from Yondu. He still sounds just as full of himself as he ever was. It’s good to see some things don’t change. Aha. A roster. Oh, he still has that weird skinny Xandarian as a first mate. No, Quill’s not on the list there… But. “Flark. He’s that Peerin Shard guy. One of the ‘heroes of Xandar’. Tivan says his name differently.”

“What?” Stakar peers at his wrist. “Oh. You mean Petee Featherspine.”

“That’s what I said.”

Stakar squints harder at the wristcomm, suddenly intent. “Martinex, that weird Petee asshole is wearin’ a Ravager flame. See?” He zooms in on a blurry photo of an exhausted, mismatched pack of the “heroes of Xandar”—and who’da thunk any Xandarian would be singing the praises of a daughter of _Thanos_ , but if there’s anything Ravaging’s taught Martinex over the years, it’s that people find strange allies in wartime. He focuses in on the big, burly Xandarian-looking one Stakar’s pointing out, and—huh, he’s wearing red leathers like the Udonta Clan does. Which means, since Yondu has viciously ignored any and all directives from Stakar on the matter of _banishment_ over the years (stubborn asshole), a distinctive Ravager flame floating over his right bicep.

Come to think of it, he’d assumed Yondu had suited the whole of ‘em in his dried-blood leathers because they’d paid him to be backup, like there weren’t better uses for men and ships than to be sold like cattle in a suicide mission, and he’d wanted to avoid friendly fire. But maybe not, if Tivan’s jibe about the Code meant anything.

“Anything you can find on the Petee kid before the whole Xandarian mess?” Stakar quits bending over Martinex’ wrist to focus on tapping his own for a moment, trying keywords thoughtfully.

“The Gramosians apparently have a planet-wide ban on him.” There isn't a lot else. Either this kid is a really good thief or he's so bad Yondu's never let him off the ship, because there's hardly anything. It's actually a remarkably short list of mentions when Martinex excludes the Xandar thing.

“I think his records have been wiped,” Stakar mutters after they've both been searching for awhile. “Look at Yondu's list over the past fifteen years, even. He's been arrested more than he used to… And same with Obfonteri. I'd put money on the damn Xandarians having expunged him.”

Martinex sniffs. “Of course. And they’d want to do a scrub of the news, too. Can’t have Nova Prime rubbing elbows with a commoner. If he’s one of their special heroes, they have to dress him up and make him look good.”

Unfortunately, hunting down the kid to shake him down and see what information falls out fails when they find out that not only is he a spacer with no permanent lodgings, his comm address is unlisted. (“Probably another Nova favor,” snorts Stakar, and Martinex is inclined to agree.) They do find a couple of job reviews and an ad that suggests that whoever Shard—or Quill, whatever—is, he's not currently running with Yondu, which is… something. Marty can't work out whether he thinks that's good or bad.

Eventually Stakar's eyes evidently start bothering him, because he's started rubbing hard between his eyebrows, trying to work the knots out. (Marty's been trying to get him to admit he needs reading glasses for five years now, without success. He'll trick the man into an optometrist’s office yet.) There's nothing for it.

“Look, boss. This is getting us nowhere. Hell with the Collector and his little jibes: let's just go to the guy we were trying to find in the first place.”

Stakar rolls his broad shoulders. “Yeah, all right,” he concedes. “Been a while since I had a chance to hit something, and right now I could damn well use it.” He eyes Martinex hopefully from the corner of one still-squinty eye. “Say, Marty,” he offers, faux-casual, “would you mind keying in the nav gate codes for me?”

Like he's not going to sneak off for a nap in a dark room for an hour or two to rest his eyes. Martinex snickers internally, but manages to keep a straight face as he nods. “Sure thing, boss.” He keeps his tone casual, as if he hasn't had a chance to change his socks since they escaped Knowhere to the familiar neat lines of the _Starhawk_.

Stakar nods, almost to himself. “Think I might take a minute, then. Catch up on some paperwork, get some work done at that desk in my bedroom.”

“Whatever works for you. I'll just be making sure the navs run smooth.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Stakar's eyes crinkle with affection, and Marty almost feels bad for him.

Almost.

The horrified yowl that lets him know Stakar failed to successfully identify the squelchy, filthy sock Marty had carefully placed just under the surface of the pillowcase is way too sweet to feel bad for long.

* * *

He keeps thinking about the kid while he navigates the jump points. There are a few hundred of them between where they are and Ego, so he’s got plenty of time to turn over the facts.

Stakar recovered from the desecration of his pillow enough to sleep. Honestly, Martinex is grateful for the silence. He’s always thought better alone.

That Tivan would mention the kid at all means he’s significant somehow, beyond what the news says. He’s been running with Yondu for awhile judging by the date on the Gramosian ban, but his record’s clean. Heroics aside, there’s nothing to mark him as special.

But maybe that’s by design. Tivan’s jibe about keeping Quill for himself, Yondu’s refusal to let his crew be scanned, all of it points to something more that Marty just can’t see.

And then it clicks. There’s nothing on Quill—or Shard, or however you say it—because Yondu was hiding him.

“Holy shit,” Marty says blankly to the stars.

They don’t comment.

But if Yondu was hiding Quill, he had to have had a reason. Yondu's a lot of things—impulsive, showy, sometimes arrogant, but he's never, ever been stupid. And he's never done anything like that without a damn good reason.

What the hell was he hiding a single green, apparently minimally skilled crewman _from_? It couldn't just have been Tivan—profit or not, but Martinex can't see Yondu willingly selling anyone into that kind of bondage. Death, he's had to admit, maybe; life, never. It would have been easy enough to tell Tivan no. So what was Yondu afraid of?

The question gnaws at him. Until the answer presents itself so clearly he can’t believe he didn’t think of it before.

Yondu was hiding him from _Ego._

That slick son of a bitch went back and grabbed another kid. Grabbed him and hid him and raised him in exile. That Quill isn’t Xandarian, he’s something else. Marty remembers that from the trial that the kids were all from backwater barely contacted planets. Easy pickings for anyone with an M-ship and a willingness to go outside the law.

Marty tries to picture Yondu with a kid; the resulting mental picture is equal parts tragic and hilarious. Yondu was barely an adult himself when he was pushed out of their pack. He had no business trying to take care of a kid.

But it fits. All the pieces fit. Yondu’s been hiding that kid from his father for over twenty years.

He needs to tell Stakar.

“What?” Stakar snorts into the comm when Marty calls him. He’s barely awake.

“Cap’n, I figured out what Tivan was hinting at. That kid is one of _the_ kids. Yondu snatched him from whatever hellhole he came from and he’s been hiding him from Ego.”

There’s a pause. “What?” Stakar says again flatly.

Martinex hisses. “You heard me.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that after he took all those jobs to deliver those kids to someone he knew damn well was killing them, the moment he saw consequences he ran back to grab the last one and hide it?”

Martinex could hit him. “I'm suggesting that whatever Yondu knew at first, all the evidence points to him hiding that kid's origins for the last twenty-five years. How much did you let him get out after he confessed, again?”

There's a long pause. When Stakar speaks, it's with the long, blunted syllables that say he's in pain. “Not much,” he admits.

“So Yondu starts refusing to let anyone scan his crew—you know the _one_ place you've never mentioned running into him is the back alley medics. He keeps this crew member with _no_ record we could find before he broke from Yondu's crew on Xandar—who pays to house and feed a crewman who doesn't do anything? And if he was a Xandarian, you _know_ they'd have thrown some kind of fit about his hometown or his colony or whatever and spent ages airing all those stories from his sainted mother. We haven't got any of that, which says he's from a backwater—like all those other kids Yondu grabbed. He never went after this Ego bastard himself—we’d have heard of that, if he made an example. Yondu never did do subtle.” Marty finds himself breathing heavily. “You idiot. He must have gone back after he talked to you, after the exile, and snatched the last kid he knew about. Tried to hide him from his father—and the whole Xandar thing just blew that all wide open. Hordes.”

He can hear Stakar's heavy breathing over the comms. “Shit. I think you might be right. _Shit_.”

“Do you feel up to pushing the jumps a little? I have a bad feeling about this.”

Stakar’s quiet a moment and Martinex doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t cajole. They both know that if it was only Marty in the M-Ship, he could make all the jumps at once without a problem. It’s Stakar holding them back. “How many stops do you think we can save and have me come out functional on the other side?”

Marty has to think about that a second, look at the nav screens and consider. “Three. Saves us a couple hours. I’d recommend you take an antiemetic, but I don’t think it’ll do anything worse than that.”

Stakar sighs. “Pushing the jumps always gives me the shits,” he grumbles. “But fine. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

* * *

Marty lets Stakar pretend he hasn’t spent the majority of the jumps on the toilet as he gears up for the last, shortest series of jumps. Stakar settles into the chair next to him with great dignity, tapping at his wristpad while they hurl themselves through space. If it weren’t for the smell wafting out from the bathroom, Marty might even believe that dignity.

“Double check the projectile weapons,” Stakar says as the jump sequence starts. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. It’s not like Tivan gave us any information.”

“Energy weapons should be enough for just about anything,” Martinex says.

“Check them anyway.”

Martinex rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. They never use the projectiles they have on board. They haven’t used a projectile weapon in ten years. Might even be more than that. “Full complement, sir.”

“Good.”

Martinex feels jittery, like he’s about to heat something up and watch it burn. There’s so much going on, so much that’s _been_ going on for so long and he can’t help wondering what a conclusion will feel like. It feels reachable, which is what’s making him realize that he’s felt like something was left hanging when Yondu left. There’s an aching hole that feels like it might just get filled in.

He’s not expecting to have to swerve the second the jump sequence ends. He jerks at the controls and gets pulled sideways in his seat.

“Shit!” Stakar shouts, hitting the controls for the forward energy weapons and zapping a piece of rock out of existence before they can hit it.

Martinex sure hopes Stakar’s bowels are empty, because there’s a lot of twisting and maneuvering through an asteroid field before Marty can get his bearings enough to make a plan. The asteroid field shouldn’t be there. It wasn’t on the charts. Jump points never exited into asteroid fields. There’s a fucking reason for that.

He swerves again and a gasp catches in his throat as he sees something that doesn’t match the rest of the debris. “No,” he says, eyes wide in horror. “No. _No_!” He yanks at the controls again and the M-Ship twists in space.

“What?” Stakar demands, trying to hang on and tug his harness into place.

“Get the flarking hatch!” Martinex shouts. They have seconds, if that. Probably not that. It’s too late. Too late and that’s all there is to it, but maybe there’s hope. For a second. Five, maybe. Not long, not long at all.

“What?” Stakar’s head is turning and Martinex sees, even out the corner of his eye, the moment when Stakar sees it. He goes rigid, then bolts. Full tilt, he runs, disappearing from Martinex’s field of vision.

It can’t be happening. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.There’s nothing Martinex can do but line the hatch up best he can while he tries to avoid debris moving in every direction at once. There’s no time to do anything else. No time to mourn, no time to think. There’s only time to act.

The forcefield generator pings on and the M-Ship shudders as the hatch opens. Martinex can’t look back, can’t turn, can’t even think. He watches the debris, watches chunks of rock headed straight for him. He gives Stakar every nanosecond he can before he has no choice left. He moves the ship, knowing that he’s sealing a death warrant, not believing he’s doing anything but that.

He jerks the controls and tries to comfort himself with the thought that he was already too late. It was a recovery. That’s all.

And then he hears it. It’s been more than thirty years since he heard that sound but he knows it. He heard it dozens of times in hard vacuum drills. It startles him still and one of the asteroids hits the ship. But he knows that sound. _That’s how Yondu sounds when he starts sucking in atmosphere after having gone without for even an instant_. There’s someone screaming, but that barely registers, because that raspy, hoarse cough is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

He guides the ship out of the asteroid field, gripping the controls too tightly to keep his hands from shaking. The panic is starting to wear off, replaced by confusion and a need, startling in its intensity, to see Yondu for himself.

Marty’s out of his seat as soon as they get clear of debris, barreling down the stairs to get to where he can still hear screaming. It’s accompanied by Stakar’s voice now, soothing.

Petee Quill, still wearing a space suit, is crouched protectively over Yondu’s prone form, snarling at Stakar like a feral f’saki. His face is real red, confirming Marty’s theory that he’s not Xandarian, and he’s dripping snot onto Yondu’s coat.

Yondu’s in no position to mind, and that’s the next thing Marty notices. He sees that Stakar has the kit, he’s ready to get a mask on Yondu, but the kid looks ready to bite. And he is a kid. Big and thick as he is, he’s definitely a child. His species must be slow-maturing, because no adult who’s spent any time in space would act like this. Or so Marty tells himself.

Marty really wants to just put a hand on Yondu, feel his chest rise and fall, and comfort himself that they weren’t actually too late. He can’t. Instead he’s got to stride over and grab the kid. There’s no amount of teeth and fists that are going to hurt Martinex, so he ignores the angry flailing and the dull thud of the kid’s blows as he physically drags him away from Yondu.

“Get him away from him! He’s alive and I ain’t letting a fucking _Ogord_ finish the job!” the kid snarls, his accent strange and foreign.

“I don’t know what kind of people you think we are, kid, but we aren’t in the business of saving people just to kill them,” Martinex snaps as he turns the kid around to shove him up against the wall. It’s pretty obvious the only way Yondu’s going to get any first aid here is if Marty keeps the kid back. Kid has several inches on Stakar. There’s no way for him to avoid the blows that keep raining down. “You’re gonna break your hands.”

“ _I don’t care!_ ” He’s a squirmy fucker, and he nearly eels out of Marty’s grip before Marty gets in his face.

“ _We’re trying to save him,_ ” he yells, and now that he gets a good look at the kid’s face, he can see he’s terrified.

Quill’s breathing hard, bloody hands still clenched into fists as he stares past Martinex to where Yondu’s sputtering into the oxygen mask.

“There you go,” Marty says soothingly. He keeps his tight grip on the kid just in case, but it looks like it’s finally sunk in that they’re not killing Yondu.

And doesn’t that sting, that this is the kind of impression they’ve left. That Yondu would ever believe they’d do that, let alone tell his kid—

There’s another mindfuck, too, and Marty’s already feeling pretty sore. This big hulking snot-faced guy is breaking his hands on Marty’s face because he’s _Yondu’s kid._

Stakar’s whispering something too low for Marty to hear over Quill’s panicky little animal breaths, but Marty can imagine. He thinks he can feel the depth of relief in Stakar’s voice.

It echoes his own. Quill’s too, probably, if the way he’s starting to shake is any indication.

“Hey, kid,” Martinex says, real softly. “He’s okay. We got him.” It reminds him of how he used to talk Yondu down, when he’d wake up shaking from nightmares he never spoke of.

“Yondu,” Quill mutters, kind of dazed. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the scene on the floor.

“We got him,” Martinex says again.

Quill sags like his strings have been cut, and Marty has to grab him and physically hold him up. “You’re alright,” he mutters, giving the kid a little pat. “You’re fine, kid.”

“He’s okay,” Quill whispers. And then he starts crying again.

Marty looks at Stakar helplessly.

Stakar’s working fast; he’s already got Yondu’s coat stripped off, and he’s working on the harness he keeps on over his clothes. Yondu’s struggling weakly, and Marty can’t tell if he’s trying to keep Stakar from stripping him or attempting to help get his clothes off. “Knock it off,” he snaps. “You’re gonna wreck your damn fingers.”

Yondu huffs, but he’s probably too dry to talk yet. He doesn’t fight when Stakar gets his whole kit off except for a crusty-looking pair of underwear and half-drags him into the bathroom.

“Get the blankets, Marty!” Stakar calls.

Martinex eyes Quill as he lets go of him slowly. “Come on, kid,” he says. “All hands on deck.”

Quill follows him to the storage area where the thermal blankets and heating devices are kept, still sniffling quietly. He takes the supplies Marty hands him wordlessly, exhaustion creeping in now that he’s stopped panicking.

“Mind telling me how the hell you ended up in space with one suit and no ship?” Martinex glances over his shoulder at Quill while he rummages for fluids. Yondu’s gonna need them.

Quill shudders and looks away. “Long story,” he croaks.

“I figured.” Marty sighs and takes the IV with the fluids bag into the bathroom. “Stakar, we got everything.”

He’s greeted by the sight of Stakar also stripped down to his underwear, sitting under the spray with Yondu’s back against his chest. Yondu’s doing a great impression of a wet cat, and Marty has to bite back a smile as baleful red eyes fix on him. The oxygen mask still covers half his face.

His lips are moving under there though.

“He’s trying to say something.” Quill’s voice right behind him makes Marty jump; he turns around to scowl at the kid.

“Don’t talk yet, Yondu,” mutters Stakar, but Yondu’s been ignoring Stakar’s orders for thirty years, so he reaches up with trembling fingers to pull the mask away enough to talk.

“Stinks like shit in here,” he rasps. “You still got trouble with the jumps?”

The look on Stakar’s face is priceless.

Quill lets out a hysterical laugh.

And that’s when the ship lurches wildly. Marty goes crashing into Quill, who lands painfully on his ass and hisses.

Stakar lets go of Yondu to charge past them, still in his underwear.

“Cease fire!” he yells, frantically trying to get the comms up and moving. Belatedly, Martinex vaguely remembers hearing the alert go ignored in all the commotion.

Stakar finally manages to activate the commlink, arches already glowing, and Martinex braces himself to see the face of this newest attacker. He's somewhat taken aback to find that the attacker is a tiny, fluffy, pointy-nosed coati-looking thing in what looks like a leather romper. It looks like it would be more at home as some fancy lady's pampered pet than where it currently sits in the cockpit of another vessel, all of its pointy little teeth bared.

Beside him, Quill swears low and heartfelt.

The coati snarls, “release the humies or get ready to explode, a-holes! I'm gonna give you the count of five and then I'm gonna add your lousy father-fellating meatsack corpses to the rest of this d'ast asteroid rubbish!”

It doesn't look like it's joking. Marty dives for the weapons consoles. Then it appears to notice Stakar. “Oh, come the flark _on_. Just what I wanted more of: crusty old guys in filthy underwear. Just what I needed today of _all_ the flarking days!” Somehow it manages to bare even more sharp, pointed teeth. “Fine. Count of _four_.”

Yondu's kid must have found some composure somewhere, because he yells “I told you that was a stupid fucking plan _last_ time, Rocket!” from the wall he's been leaning against. The coati looks over at him with startled, delighted relief.

“Quill! Glad you're still in the land of the living! Go convince these jackasses I'm serious, would you?”

“This is still the worst plan in your arsenal.”

“Let them know I _got_ an arsenal so they quit stealing you, then!”

“They're not stealing me!” The kid looks at Martinex as if debating if that's true.

“Kidnapping, then.”

“It doesn't matter! This was a bad plan the last three times! It's still a bad plan!”

“Look, it’s been a long ass day…”

“Dammit. Rocket, get Gamora to do the hostage negotiations. We’ve talked about _that_ too.”

The coati looks, for lack of a better word, ashamed. It’s a weird look on such a pointy little face. “Uh, about that.”

“What did you do?” the kid demands, eyes going wide. “You got her, right? _You didn’t lose her_?”

“What? No! I didn’t leave her to die. I’m not an _animal_! I just… had to taze her a little.”

The kid doesn’t look at all satisfied, so Martinex decides to leave him to his squabble. Someone needs to be checking on Yondu, making sure he hasn’t drowned in the shower. Let the coati and the kid yell. It doesn’t look like anyone’s getting blown up right away, so making sure that Yondu doesn’t die is important and… Shit. “Yondu, get the damn mask back on,” Martinex snaps.

Yondu has dragged himself out of the shower and is headed across the floor. He’s going to break off all his fingers— “If you bust your fingers, you won’t be able to jack off.” The words escape his mouth before he can process them.

The look _that_ gets him is one for the books, and one of those fingers goes up in a gesture Marty’s never seen before but can guess the meaning of.

The coati’s hissed gasp makes him look back; the thing looks, for lack of a better word, stricken.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. Then he turns. “ _Kraglin!”_

The skinny Xandarian comes rushing into view; Obfonteri was his name, Marty remembers randomly. He’s pale and his eyes are red. “Cap’n?” he says blankly, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Yondu grunts, but his eyes go a little soft at the sight of them. “Got the twig?” he rasps.

“Yeah.” Obfonteri makes a face that Martinex doesn’t quite understand. Fleshy lips are always a little confusing, but these ones are torn between smiling and crying and making weird wobbly motions. His eyes are all squinty and watery. It’s definitely not this guy’s best look. It wouldn’t be anyone’s best look.

Marty knows just how he feels.

* * *

 

It takes way more arguing than it should to get Yondu moved into the medbay when the ship finally arrives. Obfonteri and these Guardians of the Galaxy have apparently adopted Yondu and they’re prickly as hell about letting him out of their sight.  

Marty obeys Stakar’s unspoken command to keep an eye on them while he stomps off to go make an announcement about why a notorious exile captain no one’s had contact with for twenty years is now in their medbay. Honestly, if it’s a choice between Aleta and these weirdos, Marty got the better end of the deal.

He still eyes the Daughters of Thanos warily. The green one has her head on Quill’s shoulder. Clearly the thing for dangerous women runs in the family.

“You know, I still have no idea what the hell you were doing in space,” he says casually.

“And we’ve got no idea what the hell you were doing in the neighborhood,” the coati—who’s apparently called Rocket—shoots back. “Seems like there’s some questions to go around.”

Marty wonders if the others get the urge to kick the little shit. “We were looking for Ego.”

“Late to the party,” Rocket quips rudely. “He’s dead.”

Martinex lets that sink in. “Quill is Ego’s kid,” he says.

“Yep.” He pops the end of the word to be obnoxious.

“Yondu kept him. After the exile, he raised him as a Ravager.” Marty frowns. “Do you know why Ego killed the other kids?”

Rocket stares at him for a long moment. “You mean to tell me,” he says slowly, “that you exiled Yondu without ever looking into what went down?”

“ _I_ didn’t exile him,” Marty snaps. He doesn’t need to get judged by a weasel.

He’s clearly getting judged by a weasel. “Did you know what Ego was?”

“No.” Marty shifts.

“I am Groot!”

“I was getting to that!” Rocket looks down at the smallest tree Martinex has ever seen. It climbs onto his shoulder, which is apparently normal, as is the fact that it can talk. His day is just getting weirder. “When you came all the way out here, were you expecting a planet?”

Marty pauses to think, because he doesn’t really know what he was expecting. “We just had coordinates,” he admits. “That asshole Tivan gave us a bunch of cryptic garbage and a set of coordinates.”

“I hate that guy,” Rocket mutters, cupping a little hand protectively around the tree.

“Apparently you guys owe him money,” says Marty dryly.

“Fuck that,” is Rocket’s response.

Marty’s not gonna ask. “So _should_ we have expected a planet?” he asks instead.

“Well, that would be reasonable,” Rocket says like Marty’s an idiot, “since there _was_ a planet there until we blew it up.”

“You blew up a planet.”

“Yeah. He was an asshole who wanted to destroy the universe.” Rocket shrugs.

“The planet was an asshole.”

“Keep up. Yes. He was gonna use Quill to power his little expansion thing.”

“I thought I had a pretty good idea of what was going on,” Marty snaps. “Thanks to your explanation, I actually understand _less_ now.”

“Well, that ain’t _my_ flarkin’ problem, now is it?” The wretched little weasel throws its hands in the air. “I have had one _hell_ of a flarkin’ day, and I cannot be bothered to slow myself down to explain all of it to a d’ast talking shiny rock!” It’s beginning to shout as it waves its little paws in the air. If it wasn’t so obnoxious, it’d be pretty cute.

“How the _hell_ could a _planet_ be simultaneously an asshole and the father of that kid over there _and_ have—what, an _expansion_? Slow the hell down and explain it from the beginning.” Martinex has had decades of patience debriefing Ravagers with varying levels of emotional volatility, background insanity, exposure to mind-altering substances and hallucinations, language skills, and generally minimal cognitive capacity. He is not going to lose his temper over one coati-weasel with a foul mouth.

“It is very simple,” offers the grey, red-scarred man sitting by a pale slip of a girl with the antennae. “The planet had a penis. He told us himself.”

Martinex gropes for words, fails, and tries to muster his failing composure. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to respond to that one, because the most dangerous woman in the universe turns from where she’s been closely inspecting Yondu’s hulking child and snaps “Drax!”

He barely seems cowed, which is baffling. “I was explaining! He seemed confused!”

“Quit being disgusting and stop bringing up Peter’s father’s penis!”

“It was a reasonable question! I was helping the sparkly man understand how a planet came to impregnate Quill’s mother!”

Quill, who has gone bright red again—it’s always been fascinating, watching squishier species change colors in an instant—chooses this moment to wail “Can you _shut up_ about my parents having sex for _five minutes_ , you buttmunch?”

“I was not even speaking five minutes ago!”

“You are _no longer permitted to speak,_ ” Gamora snarls. She glares around at all of her erstwhile comrades. “ _None_ of you are permitted to speak! Not until you can learn to pause and communicate linearly like civilized adults!”

Quill opens his mouth and inhales, then apparently thinks better of it. The weasel huffs at her, but holds its tongue. Martinex supposes that this is what you can get away with when your reputation contained a swathe of mutilated corpses in your wake before you actually hit puberty.

The blue Daughter, Nebula, rasps from the corner she’s been lurking in. “Idiots. Why do you bother with them?”

Gamora whirls to glare at her sister. “That goes _double_ for you. I don’t even know why you’re still _here_.”

Nebula scowls but otherwise remains silent.

Then Gamora turns her attention to Martinex, who thinks he preferred it when she was cozying up to Yondu’s kid. “You. Ogord’s second. Pluvian. What do you want to know?”

“It’s Martinex, thank you.” Marty scrapes his cheek against his teeth, thinking about how to approach. On the one hand, she seems the most likely to give a sensible explanation. On the other, she’s the most likely of anyone in the room, except possibly her sister, to actually do him damage. He doesn’t meet many people he thinks could break pieces of him off, but she’s one of them.

“Apologies. Martinex, what part of this is confusing you?”

She’s good at diplomacy, he’ll give her that. He can almost believe she hasn’t torn limbs from people in dozens of solar systems. “The whole thing. We went looking for Ego and found an asteroid field. Nothing’s really made sense after that.”

“Ego was a Celestial—like out of stories. He was a planet who could take the shape of any species, and—well. Peter should tell this part.”

The Quill kid leans into her armpit, apparently not even slightly concerned about losing his limbs, and adds, “He was a real dick. Told me a big pack of lies about being all _lonely_ in the universe, wanting to find someone else like him. Wanted to play catch, told me a couple of stories about my mother.” He turns and spits. “Turns out that when he first found other life, he was—the word he used was _disappointed_. He had some kind of grand plan to engulf the whole _universe_ with bits of himself, called it the ‘Expansion.’” The scorn in the kid’s voice is palpable. “But he couldn’t do it alone. Said he needed another Celestial to do it with him, so he went around—I guess he went around impregnating women from all over, like some kind of twisted half-assed Noah’s Ark thing. And then he said he’d get people to ship him the kids so he could see if they had the ‘Celestial genes,’ see if they could do shit like he could, so they could _help_ him with his whole grand plan bullshit thing.”

He turns to look at Yondu, wonderingly. “Said he’d hired Yondu to bring me to him, but he’d told him he’d never _hurt_ the kids, so Yondu thought it was okay to skirt the Code to deliver kids to their dads. It wasn’t dealing in kids, it was safe passage.”

The slim, quiet girl with the antennae chimes in unexpectedly; Martinex hadn’t even been sure she was capable of speech. “I grew up with him. As his—his pet flea with a purpose, I suppose. He used me to help him sleep. But I watched him during many of his trips to find children. He lied, and he had a way with words. Everyone believed him. He convinced all of his children to help him, in the end.”

“Even me,” the kid adds, bitterly. “Almost, anyway. Till he told me he’d killed my mother, and I told him to fuck himself sideways—and then he said that that was just too damn bad, and that if I wouldn’t help him willingly he was just going to use me for the next thousand years like a battery. Stuck a weird gross glowy tentacle in me, and then he broke my mom’s Walkman.” The kid trails off, swallowing audibly and pressing his eyes closed for a moment.

Martinex isn’t sure why it matters what servants the boy’s mother employed to do the ambulatory errands, but he’s following along with this better than anything out of the weasel’s pointy little mouth. He nods encouragingly. Yondu makes some sort of muffled noise behind him, but the longer-term mask and the mittens Stakar had wrestled him into mean that he won’t be able to take the damn oxygen mask off again and damage himself any worse, so that’s all right.

“Anyway. Something hit him—musta been Yondu and Rocket?” The kid eyes the weasel, who nods curtly. “And he let go of me, and it turned out that Rocket had a pretty good bomb and Groot’s, heh, _actually_ a skinny little kid who’s good for squeezing in small spaces, and we all held him off as best we could while Groot got a bomb on his core. Yondu and I were in the middle of all of it, I think Gamora and Drax and Mantis got thrown out at some point? And then something hit _us,_ I think the Sovereign just appeared out of _nowhere_ , I’m not all that clear on that myself except _someone_ decided to piss them off for no flarking reason.” He glares at the coati-weasel here, who stares back with a defensive aggression that seems oddly familiar to Martinex—can’t place where he’s seen it, but he’s definitely seen it _somewhere_ before.

The kid takes a deep breath and continues. “Yondu gave me some pretty good advice about stealing Ego’s power and controlling it before things went to shit, and I figured out how to do some pretty cool shit to distract him while the bomb was set. Rocket and Groot must have got out after they got it in there, and I’d got my aero rig on Drax so he could carry Mantis out—she was unconscious then—and I don’t actually know how everyone else made it out alive.” He looks to Gamora with a sort of overwhelmed, exhausted wonder that makes Martinex briefly feel bad for him. It does sound like a lot.

“Nebula and I managed to ride one of the shifting rock columns to the surface,” Gamora offers him. She glances at Martinex and elaborates, “Ego’s core was where we needed to place the bomb in order to kill him. At the center of the planet.”

“Anyway, then Ego got all up in me like an A’askavarian with a nasty glow fetish and I sort of lost a bit of time. I know he got Yondu’s arrow, and he was crushing Yondu a little ways off and he gave me a pretty good piece of advice. And I sort of…” Quill looks briefly frustrated, like he can’t come up with words to describe what happened. “I reached into the glowy shit he was pulling out of me, and I grabbed it, and I _yanked_. And it kind of worked. I guess I just wanted it more than he did, right then.”

“Someone had to stay behind to get you,” says Rocket abruptly. He’s hugging himself when Marty looks at him, and staring down at the floor. The little tree pats his ear. “I was gonna, but Yondu told me to go.”

“Well. I held him down while the bomb went off, kept him from getting rid of it. And then, well, I didn’t have the aero rig anymore, I gave it to Drax. Yondu must’ve got one from Rocket and a space suit, but he—he must have just had the one?” Quill swallows hard. “Yondu grabbed me and took me up—I was okay with just going down in the blast with Ego, I figured I deserved it for buying that asshole’s bullshit—and then when the atmosphere got thin he slapped the suit on me, and— _hey,_ ” he roars over at where Yondu is masked and be-mittened in his medbay berth, “ _you fucking Smurf sphincter, you were going to give me a spacesuit while you suffocated in the black!”_

Yondu has the gall to raise his eyebrows, as if to say, _yes, and?_

“You don’t fucking get to do that, you dickweed!”

Yondu’s expression suggests that Yondu will do whatever the hell he pleases, and Quill will just have to deal with it.

The kid is nearly in tears now. “You don’t get to dump all that feelings shit on me and then just cut out, you dumb asshole!" He lurches away from his green, terrifying girl and effectively collapses on top of Yondu’s chest, sobbing for breath as he goes. Martinex winces, thinking of the damage to Yondu’s already frost-ravaged windpipes, but lets it go; Yondu is cautiously (and with evident alarm) slowly patting the back of his gigantic child with his mitten-bandaged hands, and Martinex thinks it might actually be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

Or he would, except for the look on Yondu’s face. If defeat sat wrong on his features and left Martinex unsettled, the guarded hope with which Yondu watches his kid now seems ludicrous. This is the kid he stole, and he’s a huge lug of a grown man, but Yondu’s still soothing him—badly, but he’s doing it. Like Quill’s a fussy infant, all the while watching him like he’s a miracle instead of a snot-soaked blubbering wreck.

Obfonteri heaves a little sob of his own, but he’s got the good sense to cover it up. He looks grayish and pasty when Marty looks over, and it’s the weasel of all people who goes and sits with him. The little tree climbs up his jumpsuit to settle on his shoulder; aside from a hand to steady it, Obfonteri doesn’t seem to notice.

The hiss of the medbay doors makes Marty turn.

Stakar comes through them, looking grimmer than Martinex can remember in recent history. His mouth is turned down at the corners and he doesn’t immediately open with a quip about Aleta.

That’s how Marty knows it’s serious. “What’s wrong?”

Stakar looks around at them. “Check the news.”

Marty pulls up some feeds on his wristpad and stares.

Mass chaos. Cities leveled in minutes. The death toll on Xandar is in the six digits and climbing via a little counter in the corner of the screen. Hala is reporting one of their oldest temples was leveled along with the monks inside. Some smaller planets and populated moons are out of contact because their only settlements were engulfed.

“Oh my god,” whispers Gamora.

When Martinex meets Stakar’s eyes over the news feed, he can see his own horror reflected there.

“So that’s what Ego’s expansion looked like,” he says quietly.

Gamora nods grimly.

Stakar eyes them both. “Mind catching me up?”

Marty glances at Quill, who’s still draped over Yondu. “Ego was a Celestial who manipulated people into bringing him his kids so he could use their powers to help him do _this.”_ He gestures at the screen. “He was killing the kids when they turned out to be just normal kids and not Celestials like him with the same powers. Except that one. He had the abilities.”

Stakar stares at Quill. “ _That_ kid is half Celestial?”

Martinex clears his throat delicately; Gamora’s giving Stakar a slightly hostile look. “Yes, Cap’n,” he says.

Stakar watches the news feeds for a few more moments. “You guys stopped this?” he asks faintly.

“Yeah, and if not for Yondu it would’ve happened twenty years ago when Quill was a kid,” says the coati-rat-weasel thing. He’s got his arms crossed and is eyeing Stakar nastily.

From Obfonteri’s shoulder, the tree blows a raspberry and mutters, “I am Groot.”

“ _Exactly_.” The weasel—Rocket, Marty keeps forgetting it has a name—looks satisfied.

Stakar frowns at them, then decides not to engage. “Aleta and the others are safe. None of ‘em were in the way when this crap started, and they’re all coming to us.”

Martinex nods. “How’d they take it?”

“I’ll get an earful when they get here.” Stakar smiles ruefully. “But I think we’re all just lucky to be alive.”

As Marty watches the footage again, he can’t help but agree.

* * *

Later, much later when things have calmed down and the Guardians of the Galaxy are stashed away in unused sleeping quarters, Marty sits in the medbay and watches.

Quill and the little tree couldn’t be bribed, convinced, or threatened to leave Yondu, so they’re still here too, passed out and in Quill’s case drooling on Yondu’s chest. The tree’s curled up in his neck next to his ear. It’s cuter than it ought to be.

Parenthood _suits_ Yondu, in a way that Martinex never would have thought. Just because he can’t talk much doesn’t mean Marty misses the way he lights up around the little tree, letting the thing climb all over him with a goddamn twinkle in his eye. And as for Quill, there’s clearly some hurt there, but there’s also a well of affection so deep they could both drown.

A beady red eye cracks open and levels Marty with a look.

“I missed you,” Marty confesses.

Yondu looks away. There’s that slump of his shoulders again, and the same misery that hung over him on Contraxia.

Shit, that’s not what he wants. “Yondu,” he tries again, “We were looking for answers.”

Yondu’s tense now, and Marty feels the gulf between them yawn wide. “It took guts, begging Stakar for a chance like that. In front of your crew too. Made me start thinking about how it all went down, and how we never looked as hard as we should have.”

Finally Yondu turns to look at him. One of his bandaged hands rests on Quill’s back. Maybe for comfort, it’s hard to tell. He licks dry lips under the mask and stares at Marty like he’s trying to tell him something.

Unfortunately, neither of them are telepaths, so it doesn’t do any good. Marty wants to touch him, soothe away some of the pain in his expression, but he’s pretty sure he lost that right twenty years ago. If he’d even had it. They’d been heading toward something once, taking their time because they thought, like stupid kids, that they’d always have enough.

Hindsight’s a bitch.

So Marty keeps his hands to himself and watches Yondu fuss a little with Quill’s jacket. His shifting makes the tree lift its head and blink big eyes at Marty before resettling itself with a tiny hand curled around the shell of Yondu’s ear. There’s something distressingly appealing about this new softness of Yondu’s, juxtaposed over the brash asshole who used to mow down enemies like grain in a field and laugh between whistles.

Stakar never made parenthood look this good.

But those probably aren’t thoughts Marty ought to be having, so he looks at Quill. “He as heavy as he looks?”

Yondu grunts.

It makes Marty smile; figures Yondu goes all gruff the minute anyone points out the obvious. In a way, it’s nice to know some things stayed the same.

The silence stretches out uncomfortably, but Martinex doesn’t want to leave. It’s been too long since he’s seen Yondu at all, barring the heartwrenching encounter on Contraxia, and Yondu’s brush with hypoxia has left Martinex feeling uncharacteristically clingy. He knows Yondu can’t respond anyway, but his mouth is filling up with words that he’s pretty sure he has no right to say. It’s almost nauseating the way the sentiments and phrases press against his teeth, like a half-digested poison trying to make its way back up his gullet.

“I’m so sorry,” he tries. Yondu’s eyes widen and his eyebrows raise, like he’s confused. Martinex soldiers on. “We should have asked for an explanation.” Martinex looks away. “We should have let you tell us what happened.”

He can’t look at Yondu. The machines hum on, oblivious to his shame. Martinex aches.

Finally he whispers, “I should have made Stakar stop and find out what was going on, instead of just reacting and trying to sweep everything under the rug. That was my job. I should have overruled him and come to _listen_ , instead of hiding because it all hurt so much.”

He bows his head. There’s nothing more to say.

Yondu’s rattling sigh is his only response. It remains his only response for awhile. Of course, Martinex shouldn’t have expected anything different—that oxygen isn’t just protecting Yondu’s brain, it’s rehydrating his lungs and throat. Even if Yondu didn’t have a mask on, his freeze dried voice box would be even raspier than usual.

Eventually, Martinex looks up to see if he can find a response in Yondu’s eyes, but Yondu’s closed them and Martinex can’t decide if he’s asleep. He might be. He might also be hiding.

Marty hopes he’s asleep.

* * *

The announcement goes through the ship when Aleta lands. It’s been the policy amongst the bridge crew since the first time Aleta and Stakar were married. Let the crew know. All of the crew, with a ship-wide announcement. Otherwise, Aleta Happens to people and no one deserves that without some warning. Martinex checks his blaster, but otherwise doesn’t worry much.

If Martinex knows his boss—and he does, he’s been there through two and a half divorces so far—then Aleta will march her way into Stakar’s ready room and scream at him for a good hour. He’ll scream back. Everything will go suspiciously silent for awhile and then they’ll both come out adjusting clothing and sending a rookie in to clean off the desk. It’s just how they do this whole relationship thing. Marty doesn’t get it, but it seems to work for them.

He’s watching Yondu’s chest rise and fall and rise and fall. It’s mesmerizing and he’s got a better view now that Quill’s sitting in the corner looking stupid rather than drooling a line down Yondu’s chest. It’s weirdly incredibly comforting, like the panic is drifting out of Marty’s soul with every misty puff against the mask. Something had tightened up in his chest when he saw those particular shades of red and blue against the void and it’s finally loosening up. Every breath Yondu takes lets Marty breathe a little more freely.

He doesn’t register the voice until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He glances over to see Quill and the others getting up and that breaks him from his trance. His hand tightens on his blaster because there is no way he’s going to let this happen. Yondu’s come too far to have to deal with this.

“—is no way you can tell me he’s somehow earned your trust back! This is ridiculous. He hasn’t _changed_. You’ve just gone _soft_. Soft in the head, soft in the heart, just plain _soft_. He delivered kids to their _deaths_ and you want to just forgive him? _We have a Code for a reason, you limp-dicked orloni-lover_!”

“You are _not_ going to behave like this in the _infirmary_. Aleta, that’s one step too far!”

“Oh, I’ll show you a step too far. I’ll show _you_. You can’t let Udonta play you like this! It’s all a game to him. He’s been playing space pirate for thirty-some-years and you’re going to just keep indulging his little game.” She stomps into view, pausing in the doorway to get her bearings for just an instant before her eyes light on Yondu and she takes that first step towards him.

Martinex swears and stands up, stepping between her and Yondu’s bed. “Aleta, does this have to happen _right here, right now_?” He glares at her, bracing himself.

The Guardians are on their feet now too, and Quill’s been getting redder and redder the more Aleta talks.

“Who the hell is this greasy bitch?” The coati-rat puts its hands on its hips.

Oh, hell. Almost in unison, Martinex and Stakar shout “Rocket! No!”

Aleta’s blaster appears and the solar wings flare brightly. “What did you just call me, animal?”

“ _What?”_ Marty has no idea where the hell that thing pulled a gun out of, but it doesn’t matter because Quill lunges in front of him.

“Goddammit, Rocket!”

“I said, What. Did. You. Call. Me. _Animal_.” The enunciation is enough to make Martinex’s innards twitch. He’s heard her talk like that exactly once before and it resulted in the second divorce and Stakar spending almost a month in the infirmary. Aleta is going to _explode_ and it’s going to get all over _everyone_.

Rocket bares his teeth. “I asked who you were. Quill, move. I’m talking to the lady.” Martinex isn’t sure how he’s managing to rhyme “lady” with “two-bit whore,” but he’s impressed.

Well. And terrified. That too.

“Aleta, put your gun down,” Stakar snaps. “He’s my guest and you’re _not shooting him for at least an hour_.”

Martinex has seen this tactic before. Giving her a time limit rather than an absolute tends to keep Stakar marginally more intact.

“ _Rocket,”_ hisses Quill.

“Did you hear what your little guest just called me? Are you _defending_ him?” she demands, solar wings glowing brightly enough to make eyes water and turning her gun on Stakar instead.

It’s an improvement. Martinex is at least 40% sure she won’t shoot Stakar anywhere vital. At least, not for the first shot, which buys them time..

“No, girl, you know I hate when people talk to you like that,” Stakar says, his voice turning just a little pleading. “Come on. Let’s just talk this out.” He’s not aiming the gun at her, which is probably the only reason he’s not screaming in pain on the floor right now. It’s more aimed at the ceiling, like he’s surrendering.

“The only talking’s going to happen when I’m wearing his furry little hide as _boots_!” she snarls.

“Ain’t like you’d be the first to try,” the thing snaps. “So who _are_ you?”

“What, you have some kind of fetish for knowing who kills you?” she snarls. “Because it doesn’t matter either way when you’re dead. You,” she points her blaster at Quill. “Get out of my way if you don’t want to be defecating through a tube for the rest of your life.”

There’s suddenly a long, clean sword blocking the way between Aleta’s blaster and Quill. The blade isn’t exactly menacing anyone—it’s in a blocking position—but it’s clear that this is a matter of the wielder’s patience, as opposed to lack of skill. Gamora’s clipped voice rings out with all the elocution Thanos could have trained into her. “As much as I’m enjoying all of your posturing, I was led to believe that this was an infirmary. I assume that testosterone poisoning is one of the maladies they treat here, so you should have no excuse for using your brains instead of your gonads to _talk to each other like reasonable adults._ Or else _go into the black_ to have your wrestling match, because this is neither the time nor the place.” She sounds coldly furious.

Martinex fatalistically wonders how many of them will be surviving this one.

“Please. I’ve been threatened by people _far_ more frightening than you,” Aleta says, her tone almost laughing. Marty notices with a tiny stab of hope that the solar wings look maybe a tiny bit dimmer. That would be nice.

Gamora doesn’t seem to notice. “Is that the only way to get you to stop and _think_ about the position of people on your crew? I thought I had heard that the Ogord Ravager factions had leaders who were capable of reasoning, but I suppose not.”

“Aleta,” says Marty loudly, before they can insult each other anymore, “we got new information.”

“So Stakar claims.” It’s not just his imagination. The solar wings are dimming. Everyone might just get out of it with whatever body parts they most value still attached.

“I was there for it. I heard everything.” Martinex straightens up. “There was a lot we didn’t know about this Ego and what he was doing. Stuff that _you_ should probably hear about, Aleta, before anything happens that can’t un-happen in a minute?”

“It could be a trick. Yondu’s relationship with the truth has always been tenuous,” Aleta snarls, but it’s more show than actual rage, judging from the way she glances at Stakar for a split second.

“Hey, that’s my dad you’re insulting,” says Quill irritably.

Yondu, who’d clearly been playing dead, makes a weird noise from the bed. When Marty looks over, he’s gone still again.

“You’re a terrible actor,” says the rat idly. Yondu cracks open an eye to glare at him.

Aleta looks back and forth between all of them and then peers at Quill curiously, glancing from his face to Yondu’s and back again. “Yondu was busy while he was away, wasn’t he?”

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Rocket grabs the fur on his face with both hands. “One’s _blue!_ ”

“Other than that, they’re practically identical,” she says.  “Are you speciesist? Skin colour doesn’t matter.”

His jaw drops. “Wait, seriously?” He peers at Quill and then back at Yondu. “I genuinely don’t see it.”

“They’ve got exactly the same jawline. And their foreheads. Nose is a little different, but Centaurians don’t get into space much. Between that and the colour, he must be a hybrid, so I assume he’s got his mother’s nose. How can you _not_ see it?”

“Probably because Quill’s adopted,” says Rocket blankly. “We blew up his father a couple days ago.”

“Yondu and my mom _never met,_ ” Quill says firmly.

She doesn’t look like she believes it, but the solar wings are back to a dull orange glow. “Are you sure he’s not just trying to pretend he’s not as attached to you as he really is?”

“He was gonna die to get Quill to safety, so that ship’s flown,” Rocket snaps. “Jeez, you’re a hard case. Guess he didn’t tell you anything before he invited you out here.”

“I didn’t want her to open fire rather than dock,” Stakar says, sulkily.

“Oh my god,” Quill mutters.

“I’ve known them since they were teenagers,” Martinex tells Quill. “This is tame.”

“My childhood is making way more sense,” he grumbles. Then he thinks for a moment. “Also, my adolescence.”

“Stakar tried to tell me some half-cocked story about Yondu getting tricked by a Celestial?” Aleta demands of the room, carefully not looking at her husband.

“Uh, yeah.” Quill takes a half-step behind the daughter of Thanos when he addresses Aleta directly. Wise man. “Ego told me himself that he paid Yondu to bring some of my siblings to him. Promised he’d never hurt them—to ‘ease Yondu’s conscience’, he said. Yondu kept me when he figured out the others had gotten killed.”

“Always knew he was soft,” she says, shaking her head in Yondu’s general direction. There’s affection in her tone, though—probably more than Stakar’s going to get any time soon—and Martinex watches Yondu for his response. There’s no way he’ll play dead if Aleta’s calmed down. At least, Marty hopes so.

“Ain’t soft,” he croaks halfheartedly. He opens his eyes. “Hey Aleta. I see you met my boy.”

“I should really kill you. You let me believe you broke the flarking Code,” she tells him.

He doesn’t answer her; his gaze skitters toward Martinex, of all people. It’s wide and hopeful and pleading, more open than anything Martinex has seen out of him in twenty-five years, and Marty can’t look away. He’s got to figure out—

“ _I_ am Groot.” Marty has no idea why it keeps repeating itself, but it seems to make sense to Rocket, because his whole face lights up.

“ _Huh._ Guess you’re right; Quill _does_ have grandparents.” Rocket looks a little too gleeful about that observation.

Marty gapes for only a moment before realizing the opportunity that this presents: Stakar and Aleta look stunned enough that they should be relatively pliable until this wears off, and that will let him get Yondu the space he’s clearly begging for. “Right!” he says brightly, before grabbing Stakar and Aleta both by the shoulders. “We’re going to go and _talk about what this means for the High Command_ , aren’t we? Somewhere that’s _private,_ so we’re not airing Ravager business in front of outsiders? Let’s go to Stakar’s office, there’s liquor there!” He knows he’s coming off as a little manic, but everyone really will be better off with a chance to let some of _those_ revelations sink in and possibly to get some alcohol into Aleta.

“Excuse you, I’m a captain and this is my crew,” Quill says.

Martinex cannot even deal with that right now. “Good for you!” he says just as cheerfully as he hustles Aleta and Stakar out into the hallway.

“Who the hell made you captain—” he hears the rat ask before the door clicks shut.

* * *

The truth comes out in bits and pieces after, when Yondu’s finally recovered. It takes a few days to get him back on his feet, and in that time the Guardians stick close to him. And to each other, which Martinex thinks is largely due to Aleta’s spectacular introduction. They’ve been careful to keep Rocket away from her. Marty can’t blame them; he’d had to take the thing aside and explain to him in no uncertain terms that there was shit you just didn’t say to Aleta Ogord if you wanted to survive. Bushy tail swishing in agitation, Rocket had scowled and nodded.

That surly defensiveness, now that Marty thinks about it, is Yondu all over again. Marty can’t help but be a little charmed, especially when Rocket lets the little tree—whose name, he learns, is Groot, hence the phrase it keeps repeating—ride on his shoulder.

As for Yondu himself, he’s hesitant. It makes sense, given what Marty is slowly figuring out about the state of his relationship with the Guardians and the strange tenuous way things are with the rest of them. Yondu’s slower to snap, quieter and more thoughtful than he used to be. He watches Peter Quill like he thinks he’ll disappear. He watches Stakar like he’s afraid of him, and it makes Marty ache.

Stakar was right. Things are never going back to the way they used to be, and Martinex spares a self-indulgent minute to grieve for the dumb kids they’d been, before they’d ripped themselves apart.

But Yondu watches Martinex too, and Marty isn’t quite sure what to make of that.

They pardon him, of course; it turns out he’d saved the Galaxy right under their noses, so it’d look bad if they didn’t pardon him. When they read the official statement, Obfonteri breaks down sobbing. Marty can only assume it’s because of the rest of his crew, the ones that were killed in the mutiny. Yondu claps a hand on his shoulder and leaves it there, but seems unwilling to offer any comfort more substantial than that.

“I am Groot?” the tree whispers to Rocket.

“Yeah,” he mutters as he rests his own little hand on Obfonteri’s leg. “He’s gonna be okay.”

It’s an uncomfortable truce. The crew isn’t thrilled having the daughters of Thanos on board. Something about the way the blue one, Nebula, stalks through the halls sets people on edge even when she doesn’t do anything. Aside from Rocket’s mouth, they’re all behaving themselves, even though Quill’s distrust and Rocket’s disdain are fairly obvious.

Marty can’t hold it against them. His own shame is so thick he could choke. He has no idea how Stakar and Aleta can bear it.

* * *

The first day medical clears Yondu to trade in the portable oxygen tank is cause for celebration: it means his lungs have healed up enough that there isn't much medical can do for him now. There's cheering and something of a party—Mainframe and Charlie have made it back by now to check in, and Krugarr has just docked, so everyone has finally made it back to sniff each other out and celebrate the reunion of the old crowd.

Quill has somehow convinced the mess to make a large brick of sweetish baked grain that he’s smeared with a sweet paste, which he insists is traditional at celebrations. (From the long-suffering look on Obfonteri’s face, this isn’t the first time.) Someone has helpfully dyed some of the sweetpaste and scrawled “CONGRATULATIONS on BEING ALIVE” over the top in shaky but very careful letters.

Fortunately for those crew who lack taste receptors for saccharides, the mess has taken pity on Quill’s poor planning and created a spread with food suitable for everyone. Martinex chews thoughtfully on his own slice. It is strangely lumpy and very dry, and he finds himself wishing he hadn’t taken a chance on its palatability as a peace offering.

He ambles over to where Quill is yelling that everyone better get over here, because there’s some kind of surprise get better present in the offing. Yondu looks as confused as Marty feels when he comes into sight, but he doesn’t look unhappy. It’s nice.

When both the Ravagers and Guardians are all sufficiently gathered up, Rocket coughs and waves a hand to get Yondu’s attention before passing him a slim box neatly wrapped in some kind of cling film. “Wrapping paper’s hard to come by in space,” Peter says apologetically. “It’s what you do when you want to give someone a _good_ present.”

Rocket scoffs at him. “I made it a good box. Didn’t need anything extra.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “That’s because you don’t have any sense of celebration! Go on, Yondu, open it.” He’s practically bouncing in his chair with enthusiasm.

Yondu eyes the cling film box dubiously and warily starts removing the coating. He pulls at the heat-sealed edges carefully, avoiding tearing the delicate film, and sets it aside. He slides open the box and—

Martinex would sigh, if he was breathing. _That’s_ Yondu’s arrow. He’d known something was off, had figured Yondu was still adjusting to everything that was different since the mutiny, and he hadn’t thought to miss the presence of Yondu’s yaka holster or the ever-present, ever-moving arrow constantly singing in and out of it according to the man’s mercurial moods.

More fool Martinex.

Yondu looks warily at the little coati-weasel. “Y’know this broke on Ego,” he says roughly. “Probably don’t work now. Things mostly don’t, when they get snapped like that.”

Rocket scoffs. “I fixed it. I’m _good_ at fixin’ shit like this. And Quill helped me check it over and shit, an’ so did Kraglin. Should work fine now, best I can tell, and I can tell better than anyone else you got.” Yondu stays silent, and Rocket sighs. “Won’t _know_ unless someone with a yaka-link whistles at it, though, and I ain’t had one of those to test it on. Give it a shot, old man.”

Carefully, tentatively, Yondu blows a note—and the arrow flares warmly into life, although it doesn’t move. The note changes, lowers, and the arrow rises cheerily atop the table—and then spins in a circle, cartwheeling and weaving through the crowd. None of the Guardians so much as flinch, although a few assembled Ravagers look more than a touch alarmed.

Martinex doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so damn _beautiful_. It’s not new—Rocket’s left a clear welding seam along the edge, where it must have been snapped, and it’s obvious that Yondu himself has tinkered with it quite a bit since Martinex last saw the arrow in action. But it _works_ , and it’s dancing and flinging itself around the room to Yondu’s tune as well as he’s ever seen it go—and something that’s been tense and _afraid_ about Yondu just _melts_. Martinex considers what it might be like if he’d ever lost his own comfortable ability to warm up his morning kava or cool down a too-hot bowl of plomeek without even thinking, and winces. Yondu’s never been a particularly good shot or an agile pilot—his hands always shake just a bit when he tries to fine-tune their movements, and why would he bother when the arrow is right there? Marty should have figured to ask where it’s been all this time.

Rocket watches the arrow zip through the air with a satisfied look. “Welcome back, loser,” he tells Yondu.

Yondu whistles the arrow back to his hand. “Thanks, Rat,” he says quietly.

Quill beams, and even Obfonteri’s glum expression lifts a little. “Alright, cake!” Quill announces.

Marty sets his plate down in the mad dash and conveniently forgets it. He needs to get to the bar. Hopefully Yondu still likes Kronan ale, because that’s what Marty’s bringing him. A couple rookies shuffle to make way for him when he gets up to the bar. Rank has its privileges, and Marty takes his beers back to where Yondu is sitting, turning his arrow over in his hands.

“Hey,” says Marty to get his attention.

Yondu looks up. “Hey.”

“Still drink this shit?” Marty offers the beer with a wry smile.

Yondu takes it. “Been awhile,” he murmurs. Marty can’t tell if he’s talking about the beer or not.

“Yeah,” he agrees anyway, because it has. It really has.

“Never thought I’d see this again,” says Yondu thoughtfully, looking at the arrow. “When it broke I figured for sure it was gone.”

“Smart little weasel.” Marty sits down next to Yondu.

Yondu hums in acknowledgment and sips his beer. “Big fuckin’ mouth on him.”

“Reminds me of someone.” Marty smiles.

Yondu gives him a mock-offended look. “I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to imply. I would never.”

“Uh huh.” Marty watches him over the rim of his glass. It’s comforting, sliding into the old rhythms. “I never told you—I like the new fin. Looks good.”

Yondu snorts. “This thing?”

“Looks like a tahlei,” says Marty. “It suits you.”

Yondu meets his eyes, and something warm kindles in Marty’s chest. He chuckles. “I’d say you changed, except you never did. Still look just like you used to.” He takes a swig of beer; a little foam clings to his lower lip when he lowers the glass, drawing Marty’s eyes.

“So this is as good as it gets for me, apparently.” Marty’s always been shit at flirting. If that’s what they’re doing. If he’s not reading this wrong.

“Ain’t so bad.” There’s that grin he remembers so well, stretching crooked across Yondu’s mouth. Most organics and their squishy lips leave him indifferent, but there was always something pretty about Yondu’s mouth. Maybe it’s the way he can casually deal death with those lips.

Stakar might not be the only one with a danger fetish.

Then Marty realizes that Yondu wasn’t done talking. “—shiny shit.”

“I—what?” So smooth.

Yondu quirks a brow at him. “I _said,_ you know I’ve always been a sucker for shiny shit.” He sits back in his chair, spreading his legs to take up more room and fixing Marty with a cocky look. It’s as brash and inviting as Marty’s ever seen him, and if Marty wasn’t still looking for it, he’d miss the nervous flutter of Yondu’s fingers along his beer glass, or the tense set of his shoulders.

Hell. He’s as scared as Marty is.

Marty sort of loves him for it. “Nice to know some things _haven't_ changed, then.” He grins over at Yondu, ineffably delighted and absurdly fond. “You ever found anything to hold your attention?”

It's the wrong thing to say. Yondu flinches and looks away, suddenly tense again. “Ain't my attention been the problem, when crew's always hungry and squabblin’ for more—and that _before_ the pickings get lean.”

Aw, hell. That's not what Marty'd meant, but he sees why Yondu took it that way. “Maybe that's why I never wanted a crew myself,” he says honestly. “Didn't want to have to sort out what was mine and what was theirs.”

Yondu’s wry and a touch sour when he responds. “To hear crew tell it, it's _all_ theirs, sooner or later.”

“You threaded the needle better than I would have,” Martinex says firmly. It might even be true: Marty doesn't have any illusions about his charismatic leadership or his tactical prowess, and he's always been better at executing other men's desires than reaching out for his own. Faced with a hungry crew and left to his own devices, Martinex doesn't like to think about what he might have done to keep his machines running. He thinks for a minute. “Mighta been why I never left the _Starhawk_ ,” he adds quietly. “Always been afraid to reach out and try for what I wanted.”

Yondu's gaze returns then—and quickly. Is he _surprised_ or something? “Might've liked looking after people more than taking chances,” Marty adds idly.

“An’ did you ever find anyone to look after?”

Marty snorts. “Never for more than a night. Otherwise, I wouldn't still be here, watching Stakar and Aleta try to kill each other. “

Yondu shakes his head, mock aggravated. “Speaking of things that don't change.”

“Guess I never found anyone who could hold my attention either,” says Marty. He takes a sip, watching Yondu from behind his glass. “Or anyone _else,_ maybe I should say.”

He’s being forward; it’s not like him, usually, but the giddiness at having Yondu here, sitting across from him with that grin and those eyes, makes him brave.

Yondu’s eyebrows shoot up.

Something shifts between them, a new—or is it old?—tension in the air. There’s a spark that makes Marty catch his breath at the way Yondu leans back cautiously.

“‘S been a long time,” Yondu says quietly, in a very different voice than before. It’s low and raspy, and it makes Marty shiver. “We ain’t the same as we were.”

“Not as different as we might think either,” Marty says softly. “Older, yeah. Maybe wiser.”

Yondu looks at him. “Maybe not.”

Martinex grins. “Want to find out?”

Yondu drains the rest of his beer. “Hell yes.”

* * *

 

Martinex barely gets through the door before Yondu's all over him: kissing him, winding around him, skin hungry and clearly intent on sating himself all at once. It's a heady feeling, and Marty rolls with it. Feels good, being wanted: Marty aims to reflect that feeling right back onto Yondu tenfold.

He's softer than he used to be, warmer, and while Marty’s _own_ body might not have changed all that much, it's still a delight to chase Yondu's rising and falling temperatures with his own: flushing at extremities, heating at the core.

Of course, then Yondu pulls back—Marty nearly whines at the rush of all that boring _air_ blowing over his skin—and fixes Marty with a quizzical look. “How’s this all gonna work, then?”

Martinex stares back at him, confused: he'd thought they'd been working it out _fine!_ Then, of course, the penny drops when Yondu glances pointedly at first Marty's face, then between his legs, and then back up to his face.

Right.

 _Genitals_.

Marty abruptly remembers, with a pang of irritation, why they'd never done this _before_ Yondu's exile. He rubs a hand over his face. “Yondu, it’s gonna work just _fine._ ”

Yondu eyes him dubiously. “That ain't what I asked.”

One day, Martinex is going to successfully manage to get laid without having to have this conversation. Today, alas, does not appear to be that day. “You know I don't have a dick,” he tries.

Yondu looks mildly alarmed. “What, like, not anywhere? I always figured it slid out from a hole or somethin’, like a Krylorian’s. Did something _happen_ to it?”

“No. This's standard for Pluvians, c'mon. You never ran into _any_ of us out there in twenty years?”

Yondu's alarm slides into irritation, as if Marty's actively stupid. “You meet many other Centaurians out in deep space since I left?”

“One or two.”

“You in a big hurry to fuck 'em?”

 _No_ , Marty thinks, that would have brought up too many… “Oh,” he says, lamely.

Yondu snorts. “Yeah, _oh._ So I'm gonna need a few pointers here on what shit works for you and what don't.”

Marty takes a breath, thinks about how to phrase it, considers a few wordings—

“ _Before_ I lose this stiffy, ideally,” drawls Yondu. “Man my age, they don't always come back as fast as they used to. I'd like to make this one count.”

Impatient asshole. “You don't gotta _do_ anything,” Marty blurts out helplessly.

Yondu’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ain’t really in the habit of doing nothing for my bed partners,” he says flatly.

Marty sighs. “It’s not nothing, Yondu,” he says soothingly, stepping close again. Yondu doesn’t stop him, so he runs a hand up Yondu’s flank. He’s still dressed, which Marty would like to fix soon.

Yondu stills his hand, not breaking eye contact. “Then what _is_ it? I’m not in the habit of owing at the end of a night, either.” He's tensing up again. Shit.

“I—” This figures. Yondu never could make anything easy.

“So _what_ do you want to get out of this deal, Martinex?” Yondu's gone so rigid that Martinex would probably have to hurt him to break his grip. Shit, shit, shit.

“I just want _you_ ,” he blurts, and the furious intake of breath says _wrong answer_ , and he desperately adds, “it gets me off, getting _you_ off, that's _all_ ” and closes his eyes against whatever Yondu's winding up to throw at him.  

The blow—verbal, physical, Marty's not sure what he was expecting—doesn’t come. Marty risks a cracked eyelid. Yondu's staring, apparently poleaxed.

“What?” he croaks.

“ _Look,_ ” Marty snaps, pulling his hands out from under Yondu to start wrestling with his own jacket and shirt. Successfully bare-chested, he taps his chest, drawing Yondu’s attention to the total lack of anything resembling nipples. He thinks there’s something weird about Yondu’s mammalian status, hazily; it’s been so long since he thought about Yondu’s med records or anything that he’s not quite sure what flavor of squishy Yondu is anymore, and he can’t actually remember if Yondu has nipples there either. Marty hopes not, because that’s going to make this whole mess that much easier. “Look right there. Do I got those nubby things that people like to suck on? Nipples?”

Yondu eyes him as though he might be dangerously unbalanced. “No,” he says slowly.

“Do you think I’d get much outta it if someone went and sucked on that corner of my chest, where I just got muscle?” Martinex adds tetchily. “I don’t think _you_ got nipples either, if I remember right, so does it do much for _you_ to get sucked on there?”

Yondu looks uncomfortable. “I do got ‘em, just… not there. And no, not on my chest.”

Martinex double-takes. Wait, really? He never knew _that_ about Yondu. _Down, boy_ , he reminds himself; if he does this right, he’ll have all the chances he wants to find out more about _that_.

“Well,” Marty rolls on, “I haven’t got _any_ of those weird real-sensitive breeding-specific spots, ‘cause _my_ people have babies, when we bother, by merging a crystalline bud from each of us and sort of… growing ‘em into each other. That doesn’t mean I don’t like to feel good—would _you_ like to have sex where people just pulled on your dick and called it good, or do you like it when people _touch_ you?”

Yondu looks slightly less alarmed, if more dubious. “Yeah, but what’s in it for you, then? Like, sex where no one _touched_ my goods would be pretty shitty; if you don’t got that, what _do_ you got? What’s in this for you?” He crosses his arms over his (still triply-layered, dammit) chest. “I ain’t doing _nothin’_ until I hear that.”

Marty could kill him. “Okay, look, like—you know presents, right? You ever played present-giving to _win_?”

Yondu looks at him like he’s nuts. “On my crew, presents were a pretty good way to get made as soft,” he says slowly. “You give someone a gift, you probably want something of ‘em, and if they _take_ it without finding out what and making sure they’re okay with giving it, they’re a damn fool.” He eyes Martinex pointedly.

Hornfucker. “Okay, so, like. You like to win shit, yeah?” Yondu allows as how he might, which is the biggest understatement this side of Andromeda, but whatever. Marty will let that pass. “So if you were trying to give a bunch of presents to a whole bunch of people you liked, at the same time as they were all giving presents to everyone _they_ liked including you, how do you win that?”

“By getting the biggest haul?” Yondu’s beginning to eye Marty like he’s insane.

“Nah, my friend,” Mary grins slightly manically at him. “You win by being the person who _gives_ the _best thing_ to _everyone_. You can _buy_ a big haul for yourself; that ain’t any fun if you can’t control it. If you _give_ the best thing someone else gets, you get to _win_ , their face lights up and they get all mad because they _can’t_ do it better than you, _and_ they’re too happy to do anything about it. If you pick people right, they try and outdo you next cycle, and then even if you don’t _win_ , you still got a _really_ good present, so everyone wins.”

Yondu’s dubious face is not going down any. “But you don’t have the good shit for the whole cycle then,” he points out. “And, if we’re using this fancy meta _phor_ , you _can’t_ get shiny gifts from anyone anyway, so what’s the damn point in it for you?”

Marty’s aware his face has gone a little bit manic again—fuck it. “The point is the glee of _winning_ ,” he says. “I win because I get to make other people feel good. That’s _fun_. I get to see the reactions on your face. I get to make you make those weird little noises. And just ‘cause I don’t got anything interesting between _my_ legs, that don’t mean that I don’t get something out of it up _here._ ” He taps his head, willing Yondu to give in and believe him, just for a second.

Yondu’s still giving him the dubious face. “So you get off with your brain?” he asks.

“Will you _please_ just let me suck your dick?” snaps Marty. “I promise I’m not going to expect anything else out of you in the morning.”

Yondu blinks at him stupidly. “Uh.”

Marty kisses him, only partly to stop whatever dumb thing he’s about to say next. Yondu relents after a minute, relaxing and sliding his hands up Marty’s torso.

“So you really don’t need nothing but this?” he asks.

“No,” Marty whispers against his mouth. “Just you.”

Yondu kisses him again, harder than before. _Now_ they’re getting somewhere, and Marty goes for the harness Yondu’s always wearing over his shirt these days.

“So where did you say those nipples were?” he asks with a grin.

Yondu’s hands join his on the buckles, tangling and getting in each other’s way until Marty bats him off impatiently. “Don’t think I did say. Thought you liked workin’ for it.”

Marty narrows his eyes. “You know, I actually forgot what a shit you could be.”

Yondu smiles innocently.

Marty gives up on the harness after a minute. “Get this thing off. What the hell, do you think it looks cool or what?”

Yondu rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says good-naturedly, and shrugs off his coat. He lets it fall to the floor and undoes the buckles with a fluidity born of practice, and then finally he starts unbuttoning the vest.

“How many layers are you _wearing?_ ” Marty demands.

“Just got the one under this.” Is Yondu slowing down?

“You absolute _shit_ ,” says Marty, starting to grin.

Yondu glances up through his eyelashes. “Said I needed to fuck your brain,” he says sweetly. “Just doin’ my part.”

“I’m gonna have you _screaming_ before I’m done,” Marty promises darkly. He can feel himself getting warmer just watching Yondu’s fingers take their sweet ass time with the buttons.

“Yeah?” Yondu swallows. “Been a long time since anyone’s fucked me that good.”

Marty starts to circle him, taking careful note of the way Yondu keeps him in his line of vision. “I’m not gonna stop until you’re shaking and sore,” he says in a low voice. “I got all sorts of toys. Maybe I’ll even let you pick which one you wanna get fucked with.”

“Holy shit,” whispers Yondu; and if Marty’s eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, those fingers start speeding up on the buttons.

 _Yeah_ , that’s what he likes to see. He wants Yondu eager, to match how jittery and keyed up Marty is. And from the look of it, he’s getting his wish. Yondu shrugs the vest off and throws Marty a sultry look.

“You want me to keep going?”

“You’re horrible,” Marty tells him mildly. He unfastens his own pants and pushes them down. “Keep fucking with me, Yondu. See where it gets you.” He grins at the delighted look Yondu’s wearing when he looks up.

“I’m seeing a lotta talk from you, Marty,” he says with a broad smirk. “I’m expecting a hell of a show.”

“Get the rest of that shit off and get over here.” Marty opens one of the drawers on his side table and looks over his collection of lubes. Regardless of what they end up doing, he wants that on hand. He’s never met someone squishy that didn’t need it at some point in the sex process. He seems to recall Yondu having more sensitive skin than most—not that he was ever willing to admit it—so he grabs one that shouldn’t cause a reaction, then hits the button that makes the other drawers fan open for easy access. He’s seen Yondu’s junk, but not for decades and he never got up close and personal with it, so he might as well be prepared for anything.

Yondu’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees the array. “Well, that’s… You get around a lot, huh?”

Martinex shrugs, like he’s not pleased to have given Yondu a little bit of a show with this. “I like trying new things. Different things work on different people and sometimes someone’s not in the mood for one thing or another. This way, I’ve got everything I want, right at my fingertips.” He’d spent a fair few units on that table, getting everything just right so he’d never be left fumbling. He’d learned early on in his sex life that people who kept their genitals in their pants tended to get a little bit irritated when he had to dig around and leave them waiting while he found the right dick.

“So what was that you said about letting me pick?” Yondu’s eyeing a few things with some interest.

“I said maybe. Are you naked yet?”

He smirks without looking over as the shuffling sounds of Yondu kicking his pants off are accompanied by good natured grumbling. Still, if Yondu wasn’t having fun he’d definitely say so. No one who’s ever spent more than five ticks with Yondu could ever say that he hasn’t always been good at letting people know when he’s not happy with them.

The bed next to him makes a ‘whump’ sort of sound as a heavy body flings itself down and he looks over. His eyes quickly dance over the lines of Yondu’s body. He’s thicker than he was in decontam drills. He’s older, so much older, and it shows in unpredictable ways. Marty doesn’t doubt that Yondu’s as strong as he ever was—whether or not he’s good at physical combat, Yondu has never been one to kick back and watch when there’s loot to haul—but his chest is less defined, his belly rounder. It suits him, makes him look less lean, less like he’s hungry half-starved rookie bait and more like a settled captain in his prime.

It makes Martinex want to touch, want to draw hands across every inch of blue skin and get to know it. He wants to take the time to learn which places make Yondu shiver and which make him show off about being bored. He wants, before he’s even started, to do this _again_. There can’t be an again before there’s a now, though, and a little voice in the back of his head reminds him that this isn’t a commitment. This is a moment. At best, the most he can hope for, is that this is an audition.

That doesn’t mean he can’t indulge in a little touching before they get to the main event. He leans over and runs a gentle hand down Yondu’s side. He takes a moment to memorize how smooth that skin is between scars. The smooth isn’t interrupted by the tiny hairs that cover the skin of a lot of squishy bodies. It’s novel, pulling his whole brain on a collision course with the fact that this is Yondu, no one else, none of the other shades of blue that he might have tried to convince himself had caught his eye when he’d tried to ignore the spark between them, decades ago. As his hand moves, slowly, he runs his eyes over Yondu from face down to groin, a long sweep that finally drinks everything in.

Martinex can’t meet his eyes for too long. He can’t let himself get lost trying to untangle the meaning of Yondu’s gaze. It could be like staring into the void, which would be horrible, but it would be worse if it was like looking into a mirror. He’s not ready to consider that, so he deliberately moves his eyes down over Yondu’s throat—he’s going to taste that. His chest probably doesn’t have erogenous zones, not if he doesn’t have nipples. So as much as Marty enjoys the skin on display, he reminds himself he needs to think strategy and moves farther down. Yondu’s laying on his side, facing Marty, one hand under his cheek and his other planted cheekily on his waist. It gives Marty a great view of his stomach, the way it swells a little under his ribs. Scarred a little, like the rest of him, some scars longer and more regular than others.

It takes him a brief second look to realize that oops, Yondu doesn’t have one of those weird dips in the middle of his belly that most mammals have. That calls Yondu being a mammal at all into question a just little, which could make this harder than he expected. Mammals dominate Marty’s sexual experience. He can figure out what to do if Yondu isn’t one, but it’s going to be a little harder to make this as good as he knows he can.

He’s up to the challenge, but a little more study is in order. The skin on Yondu’s belly is a little looser than what Marty’s seen on a lot of mammals, and the raised lip which he’d always taken for a scar is pretty clearly something else. Pouch, his mind supplies; he’s fucked a few species with something similar. He trails the backs of his fingers over the edge of it and smirks at the way Yondu shivers.

“Sensitive?”

Yondu makes a face at him, but a little hitch in his breath when Marty traces a fingertip back and forth across the opening tells him everything he needs to know.

“Yeah,” Marty answers himself, “I can see you shivering. Gonna let me in there?” He leans forward to kiss Yondu.

Yondu parts his lips for him, hot and inviting.

Marty goes slow with a single finger, testing; he’s learned from unpleasant experience to always, _always_ move slowly with any unfamiliar orifice. The skin is loose and yielding, and Yondu seems bored and a little shivery at the light touch, so he ventures deeper. The skin is soft and velvety, and he increases the pressure a little—which stops the ticklish shuddering, at least.

Then he finds a little nub, poking cheerily from one of the walls, and experimentally rolls it gently between two fingers.

Yondu jerks and gasps. _Jackpot._ There’s a twitch all along one thigh as Martinex carefully plays, dragging his fingertip over the nub, rolling, pinching with a little more pressure. It’s a shame. He doesn’t dare give in to the desire to give it a little harder pinch when that light pinch makes Yondu gasp again. It would be so nice, but fleshy types’ more sensitive regions usually aren’t compatible with any kind of roughness from his naked skin. He’s just too sharp.

“We’re coming back to that,” Martinex promises, withdrawing his hand.

Yondu yawns. “Don’t gotta. Was about ready to fall asleep there for a minute.”

Marty narrows his eyes at the shiteating grin Yondu flashes him and kisses him to shut him up. It’s becoming a regular thing with Yondu, he can tell.

A muscular thigh swings over his hip and before he can do more than squawk, he’s on his back with a smug Centaurian grinning down at him. Yondu leans down close to his face, breath gusting hot across his lips as he whispers “You said you wanted a mindfuck. Why’re you expecting me to lie there like a corpse under an autopsy?” Then he cheerfully licks Marty across the face. “Hey. Saltier than I figured it’d be.”

Martinex gapes at him. Yondu’s tongue is hot against his cheek, and he’s a little stunned at how goddamn _nervy_ Yondu is. Somehow the years dulled the memory, but he supposes he should have known better.

He settles his hands on Yondu’s hips, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh. “You,” he says, tipping his head back because Yondu’s biting experimentally at his neck, “are the biggest pain in the ass. Everyone likes getting off.”

“Except you, apparently.” Yondu clonks his fin against Marty’s face in a weird headbutt. “You should put your hands on my ass.”

Marty does, because none of this is going according to plan, so why not? He kneads Yondu’s asscheeks and grins when his hips jerk. “It’s a nice ass,” he says stupidly.

“Glad you think so.” Yondu noses along his jaw, pausing to bite and lick at Marty’s ear.

What is he _doing_? Usually people just let him play around, once they get past the “no-genitals, sorry” thing. “You know you can’t fix any mineral deficiencies by licking me, right?” he asks, just in case Yondu’s trying to meet some kind of weird dietary requirement.

Yondu gives him a dirty look and sticks his entire tongue in Marty’s ear. Or as much as he can fit, anyway. “Blergh, that tastes disgusting.”

Marty doesn’t have words. “I do make earwax. I’ve… never found a species whose earwax tasted good. Yondu, are you trying to actually _eat_ me?”

“You’ve licked inside enough ears to know?” 

“Look, erogenous zones were _confusing!_ ” Marty kneads Yondu’s ass some more. It’s comforting, like a big warm stress ball.

“Ain’t you got any of your own?” Yondu actually _bats his eyes,_ the weirdo. Like he could ever look innocent with that grin on his face.

“I dunno, I’ve never really tried. I know what feels good, but… it’s not like I have any of the obvious buttons, and it’s always been more interesting to work with someone else’s equipment.” Marty tries arching up under Yondu, pinning his dick between Marty’s belly and his own balls. It’s gratifyingly effective at distracting Yondu, whose eyes roll briefly back in his head, so he tries it again.

Yondu gives him a dirty look and rubs his entire belly against Marty’s, dragging himself up and down the smoother skin. It feels nice, so Marty says so, and Yondu immediately amps up the smugness as he moves back again.

Unacceptable.

Marty steals a hand back towards Yondu’s pouch, hunting for those tantalizing little nubs again. He’s prepared to fight dirty, dammit. “You might, uh, want to be careful about that,” he casually reminds Yondu, whose motions have started to go a little jerky. “You’re going to chafe a hole in your bits, and then where will we be?”

Yondu gives him a filthy look, then a considering one. “Got quite the toy collection, Marty,” he purrs. “You used any of ‘em on yourself?”

Marty blinks up at him. “Well, no, Yondu,” he drawls after a pause, “since they’re meant for using on genitals and _I don’t have any_.”

Yondu rolls his eyes. “Thought you were all creative,” he says with a leer. Then he dives for the wand lying casually in the toychest, works out how to rev it up after a moment’s poking, and starts applying it methodically to Marty’s inner thighs.

Mostly, it tickles. Marty scrunches his face up at the sensation, squirming a little. “Yondu,” he says, shifting his weight from one side to the other, “I appreciate the thought, but this— _what the hell?”_

Yondu looks up innocently. “What?”

“Get that thing off my ass! It feels weird.” Marty closes his legs, trapping the wand between his thighs where it can’t poke him in the asshole anymore.

Yondu huffs. “It always feels weird at first, but it’s _great_. Haven’t you ever tried it?”

“Exactly once, exactly long enough to realize that it’s about as much fun as taking a shit.”

“I’ve taken some pretty good shits,” Yondu says, sounding nostalgic.

Marty does not want that thought to continue. He really doesn’t. He needs to think of something to say that will distract Yondu before he can continue.

“You’ve never had to shit so bad you just about didn’t make it through landing and then made it to the toilet just in time? Feels good. Satisfying.”

Martinex stares at him. “I think possibly our biology’s a little different back there. That’s… I don’t get that sensation. It might have something to do with the fact that I don’t have a prostate. I don’t know.”

It’s Yondu’s turn to stare. “Wait. Ain’t that part of the whole pissing process? Don’t you _have_ to have one?”

Marty shrugs and wonders where he’s gone wrong in all this. He was supposed to have Yondu splayed out on the bed whimpering and begging by now. Instead he’s flat on his back with his legs pressed together trying to assure him that he knows his own biology. “Guess not, since I don’t.”

“Huh.” Yondu pauses, considering that. “So you really don’t want to at least _try_ letting me put this up your ass? I promise I’m good at it. I ain’t never had a complaint or left anyone hanging.”

“I’m really sure,” Martinex says. “I’m really, really sure.”

“Huh. Okay. Well. I ain’t never done nothing to anyone that said no. I mean, in bed. Lotsa people tried to tell me not to steal their shit. I don’t care about _that_ kind of no.”

“I know,” Marty says. Things feel just a little bit better awkward. “You know what’s really great?”

Yondu looks at him suspiciously.

“I have these gloves, right? And they’re so thin I could probably feel every hair on your chin through them. But they’re the softest thing I’ve ever felt. I bet your cock would love them.”

Yondu considers, tilting his head a little. “Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

Marty waits, but it doesn’t look like Yondu’s going anywhere. “They’re in the middle drawer on the left,” he finally says.

Yondu nods and leans way over to go digging. Marty watches him with less irritation than he probably deserves.

Yondu digs around, gets distracted, tosses a toy on the bed where Marty can’t see, and then makes a triumphant noise. “These them?” he asks, holding up the gloves.

“Yeah.” Marty runs a hand up his side; there’s too much skin there for him to resist for long. “Mind bringing ‘em here?”

Yondu smirks. “Gimme a kiss and I will.”

Rolling his eyes, Marty smacks a fond kiss against his thigh, which sets Yondu cackling as he returns with the gloves. He holds them aloft. “Gimme another one.”

Martinex reaches up and draws his fingers _very_ lightly up and down Yondu’s exposed ribs; in the shrieking laughter that follows, the gloves go flying (fortunately) near enough to Marty’s face to grab them for his own. “I already paid, jackass. Can’t go reneging on a fair deal on me now.”

Yondu grins at him, breathless and happy, and suddenly Marty can’t breathe past the affection he feels for him. He kisses him again anyway, slow and deep just to feel Yondu melt against him. When he pulls away to slip the gloves on, Yondu chases his mouth.

Marty adjusts the gloves carefully; there’s some showmanship that goes into it, after all, and Yondu’s eyes follow his movements with badly disguised eagerness.

“I had these gloves made custom,” Marty tells him, conversationally. “I had to kill a pregnant bilgesnipe and take the materials to a tanner myself.”

Yondu’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “ _You_ killed a bilgesnipe? Without damaging the hide beyond repair? Or frightening the damn things off before you ever had a chance of seeing one? I’ve _seen_ you planetside; you ain’t exactly _subtle_.”

Martinex rolls his eyes. “I paid for a hunting guide and a locator, all right? And then I had to let it _eat_ me before I could kill it right.” Goddammit. Usually that bilgesnipe line impresses people, but apparently not tonight.

That seems to satisfy Yondu, who starts squirming over Marty impatiently. “C’mon. Wanna feel that shit, if it’s as nice as you say.”

That makes Marty smile. He runs his fingertips up Yondu’s inner thigh, dragging the soft leather along to play at the crease where Yondu’s leg meets his groin. The gloves really were worth the expense. He can feel Yondu’s thigh muscles bunch under his hand in response to the soft touch. The gloves are so inky-black that they contrast beautifully even with the depth of the blues in Yondu’s skin. He drags his fingers up the crease, admiring the contrast and the way Yondu quivers.

He spreads his hand, fingers splaying until his thumb brushes against the deep indigo of Yondu’s balls, spread from the crease to the velvety looking soft skin. It’s gorgeous and Yondu jerks sideways, trying to get more contact. Marty smiles and moves again to cup Yondu’s balls, lifting them up gently, carefully, away from his cock. He watches Yondu’s face for any sign that moving them hurts or that he’s squeezing too hard, but what he gets is a rounded mouth and a raspy, slightly high pitched sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Just relax, Yondu. Let me make you feel good. When’s the last time you let yourself have something good?”

Yondu swallows, breath hitching when Marty strokes a careful thumb over the soft skin of his balls. “Been a long time,” he rasps.

“That’s what I thought.” Marty pulls him down for another kiss, savoring the heat of Yondu’s mouth and the little gasps he tries to smother as Marty slides his hand further down to stroke his cock.

It’s a pretty thing, a deep purple-blue with a bifurcated head. Marty wants to get both hands on him, pet his thumbs over both at the same time and see if he can break Yondu that way. Maybe he’ll get his chance. For now he trails his fingers lightly up and down the shaft. It’s fun, feeling what makes Yondu twitch and squirm.

Yondu makes pretty noises when Marty pets a finger just between the heads of his cock. It twitches under Marty’s fingers, and he grins against Yondu’s lips. “I win,” he whispers.

“Like hell you do,” grumbles Yondu, but he gasps when Marty’s other hand grips his waist to hold him in place. His cock jerks when Marty wraps his hand around it and gives it a long stroke.

“Quit being such a stubborn asshole and let me play with you.” Marty keeps his grip light on Yondu’s cock, jerking him with short, fast strokes to wind him up. He’s forming a strategy for how to reduce Yondu to a quivering wreck. The pouch is sensitive, the nipples inside even more. He’s ticklish, which has the potential to be fun but might also backfire. And his balls get the most beautiful responses. Marty wants to come back to those. Possibly while Yondu’s squirming on whatever toy he tossed on the bed. Marty cranes his neck to try to see what it was he pulled out of the drawer.

He sighs when he finally sees it. Yondu, being Yondu, grabbed the biggest, shiniest dildo Marty had in the drawer.

He’s not sure what he expected. “You got a size kink or something?” he asks when he reaches over to pick it up and wave it in front of Yondu. “Want me to stuff you real full, is that the idea? Or did you just grab it because it’s shiny?”

Yondu bites his lip.

“I mean, I’d been thinking something with a better angle for your ass,” Marty says casually, “but if you want this one, I can roll with that.”

Yondu’s breath picks up. He likes this, Marty realizes. Under all the smartass comments and stupid questions, he likes Marty’s casual command of the situation. He licks his lips nervously and mutters, “could put it in my cunt.”

Marty pauses. Blinks. Considers this. He can safely say he was unaware of _that_ part of Yondu’s anatomy until...just now, actually. “I could,” he says after a beat. “Is that something you want?”

“Just suggested it, didn’t I?” snaps Yondu.

“I wanna hear you say it. Tell me you want that big shiny cock in your cunt.”

Yondu’s eyes get gratifyingly wide and his breath catches; Marty has to bite back a grin. He opens his mouth, closes it, clears his throat, and then swallows. “Hell, Marty.”

“You want it, you gotta say it.” Marty quirks an eyebrow.

“Shit.” Yondu looks away. His cheeks are getting to be a real pretty navy. “Yeah, I want that.”

“You want what?” Marty lets himself smirk at the way Yondu’s squirming. “Never figured you of all people would be shy.”

“I ain’t shy!” Yondu scowls at him. “I want your big shiny cock in my cunt. There, ya happy?”

Marty pushes up into a sitting position. “I will be once I’ve got your legs spread and your ass in the air.”

With Yondu firmly on his lap, he can reach back and tease delicately over his ass crack. He has to be really careful not to crush his balls at this angle, but the hissing breath Yondu makes at the touch of his fingertips makes the caution worthwhile.

He lets Yondu shiver for a moment, making abortive little movements towards his fingers, before he speaks. “Y’know,” Marty drawls casually, “If I’m going to put anything in your cunt, I’m going to need to be able to reach it. This really the best angle for that?” He’s pretty sure it’s got to be between dick and asshole, unless it’s somewhere _really_ weird—which means it’s probably somewhere pressed right up against Marty’s hips right now.

Damn. That’s a _thought_. He’s impatient to see it—but hell if he’s going to rush Yondu _now_ ; not if it leads to another wrestling match before Yondu will just _relax,_ lean back, and get with the flarking program. That said… he’d responded well to talking before. Marty grins, carefully not examining the little rush of heat in his belly and his chest, and slides his lips right up against Yondu’s ear. “You want to show yourself off for me, huh? Thought you weren’t gonna be shy—thought you wanted to give me a real pretty surprise?”

He’s careful to let the breath from his words ghost over the shell of Yondu’s ear, grinning wider when the heat causes that sweet, smooth skin to flush a deep violet. It fairly glows with gorgeous _warmth._

Yondu’s still a little tense, so Marty presses a kiss to his ear, and then to the webbing of scars on the side of his head. “Wanna see you, gorgeous. Want _everything._ ”

“Marty...” Yondu turns his face into Marty’s neck. It’s a sweeter move than Marty would have expected.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, petting up and down the sensitive crack of Yondu’s ass. “Gonna make you feel so good, Yondu.”

Yondu shivers all over once, sucks in a deep breath of air, and shifts his weight back and to the side so Marty can get a look and maybe, Marty thinks hopefully, finally get some decent access.

Oh, he _does_ have a pretty little cunt there, nestled between the root of his cock and some soft folds of skin. It’s warm, warmer than Yondu’s cheeks. Marty can _see_ that and it’s incredible. Marty doesn’t have much in the way of preference between a cock and a cunt. He knows how to play either one, but there’s something about seeing the way the heat swells up in there that’s more subtle and, in a way, more satisfying than a hard dick.

Dicks are ready to go at the slightest provocation, but that kind of warmth radiating out of a cunt, that only comes when someone’s really turned on. There’s no hiding that kind of arousal and no faking it. Yondu _wants_ him.

“That’s amazing,” Marty says, eyes and infrared organs drinking in all the variations in colour and temperature.

Yondu squirms, legs twitching like he might close them. “You just gonna stare at it? Or were you plannin’ on actually doin’ something?”

“The question is what to do first,” murmurs Marty, raking his eyes over Yondu. He wants to keep looking, but his fingers are itching to touch and explore.

“Could try getting acquainted,” says Yondu, clearing his throat. His face is still hot; it’s ridiculously endearing.

“Good idea.” Marty puts his hands on Yondu’s hips and strokes his thumbs up and down over the crease where groin meets thigh. He likes the way Yondu’s cock twitches as he inches his hands closer together. The light touches have been getting good results so far, so he decides to stick with them for all the sensitive bits.

He traces his thumb down one of the inner folds, slowly hinting that he might move up towards the root of Yondu’s cock and then dancing lightly away as Yondu’s hips fidget in response.

Yondu glares at him. “B- _bored now_ ,” he grates. “Shit or get off the pot, Martinex.”

Martinex gives him a patient look. “You’re bored?” he asks wryly, and runs a fingertip lightly up the underside of Yondu’s cock.

Somehow, Yondu manages to maintain the stubborn look even as the touch makes him writhe. “C’mon, Marty!” he whines, pushing his hips up against Marty’s hands.

Marty grins. “What was it you wanted? I think I might have forgot.”

Yondu actually growls at him, an act which ought to be menacing but mostly just comes off as _adorable_ without the concentration to pull it off, and then—”Ow! Did you just _kick_ me?”

“I’ll do more than kick you if you don’t _quit teasing me_ and _do something with my cunt_ , Martinex!”

Marty’s pretty sure that he’s reaching the edge of too much waiting and not enough action, so he reaches for the lube on the edge of the table and drips it over the toy. He really _ought_ to warm it up, but the contrast between those delicious variegated warm pulses and the cool, inert gel of the silicone is so _tempting_ …

Yondu yelps as a gobbet of the cold lube drips onto his cunt from the toy before Marty can make a decision and thrusts _wildly_ upwards at the contrast. It’s exactly as pretty, Marty thinks guiltily, as he’d thought it would be—but that’s definitely enough teasing for now, or Yondu might actually murder him in his sleep.

Marty rests the tip of the toy against Yondu’s hot cunt for a minute, just to watch him squirm. “It’s pretty big,” he says mildly.

“Yeah.” Yondu narrows his eyes. “Put it in me.”

“Might hurt a little. How long since you’ve taken a cock this big?”

Yondu smirks. “Long enough.” He spreads his legs wider. “Come on, Marty. I ain’t delicate.”

Marty pushes it in.

He goes slow, not just out of consideration but to watch Yondu’s face as he’s slowly stretched open and filled up. Yondu’s mouth has fallen open and Marty shivers at the deep, guttural noise he makes when the head of the dildo pops past his opening.

Gently thrusting deeper has a gratifying effect; Yondu fairly _writhes_ under Marty, shoving his ass deeper and tilting his pelvis forward as Marty slides the dildo deeper. On a hunch, Marty drags it back, provoking a beautiful needy whine from Yondu, and tries a slightly steeper angle. Jackpot: this time Yondu _yowls_ as Marty apparently nudges a particularly good spot. He tries it again a few times, grinning, and then abruptly changes angle on the next thrust, deliberately missing that good spot.

Marty's not ready for this to be over, dammit. There's too much he hasn't gotten to play with yet.

“What the _hell_ , Marty?” Yondu wails, tilting his pelvis to chase that angle right as Marty pulls the sensation away.

Marty grins fondly down at him. “You _said_ you couldn't always come again at your age, old man—and I'm not ready to be done with you yet.”

The swearing he gets as response to that is _beautiful_. Marty teases around Yondu's lips lightly with one hand, humming happily to himself, while he digs in the drawer with his other. Wouldn't do to let Yondu get distracted, after all. Ah, here's what he's after—the little velvet bag appears under his fingers, and he straightens with a wide grin.

“You were hiding those pretty little nubs from me all this time,” he croons. “Did you really think I wasn't gonna do something about that?” He slips one of the weighted, rolling little steel balls from its bag, letting the inner ball rattle back and forth in his hand as he carefully warms it up to the same intensity as Yondu's skin. The balls are intended to weight down a passage, but that little hidden pocket has _possibilities_. “I want to see how you react to these little babies before I'm done, and I can't be doing that if you're done so _soon_ , darling.” The pet name slips out before he can stop it, and it takes everything he has not to freeze in sudden terror that Yondu will catch it and _know_ what he wants.

Martinex tries to catch himself, sliding a second ball against the first and letting it clink against the other as he fills it with all the warmth he isn't sure he's allowed to show in his words. “Gonna see what you're like with all these little weights rolling against those pretty little nubs,” he adds roughly, hoping Yondu hasn't caught on.

No such luck; Yondu’s eyes fly to his face. He parts his lips but closes them a second later, staring at Marty. “Do it,” he whispers roughly. He licks his lips, nervous, and then says a little more confidently, “fill me up.” He tips his face up for another kiss and Marty indulges him. How could he not, when Yondu’s all but begging for it with his eyes?

He keeps kissing him as he pets his fingers over the pouch opening. “Wanna fill every space inside you,” he whispers against Yondu’s mouth. “I want all of it. Everything you have, opened up so sweet all for me.”

Yondu makes another needy, delicious noise at that, arching against Marty’s hand. He curls a hand around the back of Marty’s neck, stroking his skin with reverent fingers.

Marty slips one of the balls into Yondu’s pouch with a smile, smothering Yondu’s gasp with his own lips. It settles into place with a satisfying _clink_ , rolling gently into the low point of the pouch, and he sends its partner rolling prettily after it while Yondu pushes sweetly against his lips. He steals a hand in after, careful to keep his hands as warm as the steel, rolling the balls gently against the walls of Yondu's pouch and over those little nipples while Yondu pants prettily into his mouth.  

Marty pulls back a little regretfully—but kissing and letting the little steel balls roll around all night isn't going to win him the part he's aiming for with this audition. Maybe another time, if he gets another time, he’ll spend hours letting Yondu work himself up until he just can’t take it anymore. This isn’t the time for that.

This is the time to make Yondu scream. He promised. It’s time to make it happen. Marty reaches over the edge of the bed to grab one more thing.

“You have enough toys,” Yondu mutters.

“I have enough toys to make you beg. I need one more thing to make you scream.” He pulls a sleeve out of the drawer, one he can hold in his hand and have more control over how much it squeezes Yondu’s cock. It’s clear, ribbed just enough to add some texture. He sets down the dildo so he can squirt some lube into it.

“You have hands.”

“Yeah, I do. This is about a hundred times better than just hands. Trust me.”

“I _been_ trusting you. You keep slowing d—”

Martinex cuts Yondu off by sliding the sleeve over his cock. It’s a hair shorter than Yondu’s whole cock so the little forks that make up the tip peek out at him. Little bits of purple stick out and disappear, the colour muted through the sleeve and brighter when they pop out. It’s mesmerizing enough that it takes him just a second to find the dildo with his other hand so he can slide it back in without looking away.

There. It’s such a pretty sight, the glittering hilt of the dildo resting gently against the sleeve, and he holds one in each hand as he begins to slide them back and forth. The sleeve he holds lightly—just enough to keep it on Yondu as he moves the dildo back and forth, Yondu’s plush balls popping neatly above the top of the sleeve. Marty carefully tilts the angle of that dildo and essays a long, smooth stroke just a step away from that angle that worked so well the last time, warming him back up before he hits that beautiful tilt one more time. Yondu can’t hold himself still, can’t even mouth off despite having his mouth completely free to work: Marty is beside himself with his own cleverness at this monumental achievement as Yondu pants and shivers under him. It doesn’t take long before he tenses and wails and—

Marty probably should have expected to find himself covered in unpleasant organic glop, standing over a cock like that. He blinks through the results of Yondu’s orgasm, trying to free his eyes to see—there’s a _lot_ of it, more than he usually expects, and it’s thick and sticky like the mess’ ekwe pudding. He licks tentatively at it to try and clear his face, hoping it’s not too bad-tasting—he’s definitely tasted worse, to his relief. He manages to get his eyes open just in time to see Yondu staring at him and _visibly_ twitch his dick at the sight of Marty’s come-splattered face.

Well, glad to know that _someone_ enjoyed that. Marty’s pretty sure he’s feeling too dopily pleased to mind too much. It’s a real struggle to choose between curling up around Yondu, who looks limp and soft and pleasantly warm, and… well, the necessity of cleaning himself off first.

The glop that drips onto his nose decides him, so he steps into the bathroom for a quick rinse and a washcloth. He grabs another for Yondu, who is still flopped limply on the bed where Marty left him—shit, shit, shit, is he _okay_ , Marty should have _asked_ , sometimes people feel weird after sex—

Yondu blinks up sleepily and then yawns hugely as Marty returns. He’s removed the dildo but nothing else, and he looks, well— _cute_ , all worn out and limp like that. Martinex, who generally winds up jittery and pleased and nervous after sex, is a bit jealous of people who go boneless. He sets to work cleaning Yondu up and then, after a brief and guilty moment of indecision, slides into the bed beside him and wraps his whole body around Yondu’s.

After all, he might not get another chance.

* * *

He wakes up to squirming. Stubbornly, he keeps his eyes closed and squeezes a little. He’ll be damned if he lets Yondu get away from him so easily.

Then the squirming turns into a genuine struggle. Yeah, maybe trying to restrain Yondu with some fake sleep is a bad idea. He’s sort of glad he doesn’t have any junk when the struggle results in a knee connecting hard with his groin. “Don’t go,” he says, not opening his eyes.

If he doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t have to see Yondu decide that this is over. He doesn’t have to see how he didn’t manage to win Yondu’s… trust? Affection? He’s not even sure exactly what it is he wants, which is probably part of the problem.

“You got some kind of weird kink about people pissing your bed?” Yondu demands, shoving at Marty to get free.

Oh. Right. Martinex had forgotten. Yondu’s always had an itty bitty bladder.

He’s still vaguely reassured when the first thing Yondu does upon escaping the bed is to dive for the bathroom door, not the hallway to general quarters. And more reassured to hear the tell-tale tinkle of Yondu _emptying_ that itty bitty bladder into the toilet, not—not—

Marty’s hit with a brief image of Yondu gnawing his way into the vents to escape rather than look Martinex in the eye again, Yondu deciding this was a terrible mistake, and tries to strangle his own asshole brain by burrowing into his pillow. It’s a big pillow, soft and downy and comfortable, so he can get quite a way into it before he runs out of space. Maybe he’ll just live here. Maybe he can pass this all off as sleep-fog and confusion and let Yondu have an actual graceful exit. Maybe he can—

He’s startled out of his reverie when a warm, heavy weight crashes into his ribs like a wrecking ball. Ow.

“What the hell was that about?” drawls Yondu, leaning hard into Marty’s shoulder. He sounds genuinely curious. Marty sort of hates him for it.

“I thought you were leaving. I haven’t even made you breakfast yet,” he says, hoping Yondu won’t investigate further.

Yondu goes quiet. “Breakfast, huh?” he says after an endless minute. “I don’t remember you bein’ much of a cook.”

“Coffee, then,” says Marty, pulse pounding in his ears. “And I can cook. A little.”

“Well, Kraglin’s claimed he can cook a little, but it ain’t something I’d wanna eat.” Yondu levels him with a look. “Let’s see what you got.”

Marty scowls. He doesn’t much like the thought of Kraglin Obfonteri cooking for Yondu, although if they had anything going on Yondu probably wouldn’t be here. Yondu said he didn’t have anyone; Marty’s just being weird now, he’s gotta stop that. “I—sure, we can. I just—in a minute, okay?” He kinda likes it here with Yondu draped over him like a warm blue blanket.

There’s a long pause before Yondu mutters, “sure” in a gruff voice. It might be wishful thinking on Marty’s part, but it seems like he’s trying to squirm closer.

They stay like that for a long time, warm and drowsy. Yondu keeps nudging Marty with the hard tip of his fin, and it should be annoying, but Marty can’t bring himself to mind. Maybe later it’ll annoy him. For now it’s kind of nice.

Yondu’s stomach rumbles ominously and breaks the silence. He looks a little embarrassed. “Said you was gonna cook for me,” he says loudly to cover up the next rumble.

“I did, didn’t I?” Marty pats Yondu’s stomach reassuringly. Yondu takes it with good humor, which for Yondu means slapping Marty’s hand away hard enough to sting. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up. You like eggs?”

“What kind?”

“Wallakeet.” Marty sits up, stretching.

“Yeah, I like eggs,” Yondu says after a beat.

Marty gets to his feet and walks naked to the kitchenette that takes up half a wall of his quarters. Space is always at a premium on a ship, even one as big as theirs, so it’s a luxury even to have the small cooling unit and cooktop for himself. He gets out a pan and some fat and the eggs and begins to cook, taking comfort in the familiar routine of it.

When he glances back at the bed, Yondu’s sitting up and watching him. It’s hard for Marty to parse the expression on his face.

“Scrambled or fried?” he asks to break the strange silence hanging between them.

“Ain’t picky.” Yondu scratches at the line of his pouch and starts peering around Marty’s room. It looks different than the last time Yondu would have been in here, Marty realizes abruptly: the room itself is the same, but Marty's tastes in colors have changed over the years, and he's picked up new pieces of art for his walls along the way. He remembers that shift when he lost his temper about clutter ten years ago, too, and started aggressively getting rid of anything that tended to get in the way of his feet when he's moving across the room; and there was that squashy chair he'd picked up about five years ago that's about perfect for curling up to do paperwork in.

“Awful sparse, ain’t it?” Yondu asks when he sees Marty looking.

Marty snorts. “About ten years ago we lost gravity for a few hours. It, ah—changed my perspective on keeping stuff laying around.”

That gets a chuckle. “I bet.”

Marty gives him a sly grin. “Stakar almost got killed after that one,” he says casually as he drops two eggs in the pan. “Aleta was on the shitter when it happened.”

Yondu’s bray of laughter is loud enough to echo off the walls, and he falls back on the bed giggling like a kid. “Oh hell,” he wheezes. “I bet. What’d she look like?”

His laughter’s contagious, and soon Marty’s snickering too as he recounts the incident. “—then he _finally_ convinced her to take a shower, because she’d been shooting at him drenched in toilet water.”

Yondu cackles.

“They came out a few hours later and things were fine.” Marty shrugs. “Just another day, really.”

“Reminds me of the time Quill got stuck in the vents,” Yondu says. “Dumbass kid was so soft when we first got him, he wasn’t good for nothin’ but clearing out orloni nests. So we send him up, with gloves an’ everything, and Kraglin makes some dumbass joke about how they bite.” He rolls his eyes. “Kid backtracks outta that vent so fast he snagged himself. Took us three hours to get him out, him squealin’ the whole time. I had to talk him down like a scared little animal.” He shakes his head fondly. “He bit Kraglin as soon as he got out.”

“How the hell is that even a little like the Aleta story?” Marty’s confused.

“Oh. Had to drag him off to shower afterwards because he’d pissed himself up there.” Yondu shakes his head again.

Marty quirks an eyebrow. “Cute story.” Who left him with a kid, again? Oh, right. They did that.

Yondu frowns. “What?”

Marty clears his throat. “Eggs are done.”

Yondu keeps _looking_ at him as they eat, and it's worrying. Martinex likes eggs, but these feel alternately too runny and too rubbery.

Eventually Yondu finishes—Marty having long since dithered his own appetite into a peevish nausea—and stares hard at Marty, as if he's trying to figure something out. Marty tilts his head back in question and tries to look cool and easygoing. He has a sneaking suspicion that it’s failing.

Yondu shakes his head— _what?_ —and snorts affectionately over at Marty. “C’mere.”

Martinex ain’t looking a gift horse in the mouth any time soon, thanks. He edges closer to Yondu, who promptly settles himself comfortably into Marty’s lap and starts kissing him, long and slow and comfortable.

There _is_ going to be a next time! Marty licks as gently as he can into Yondu’s mouth, aglow with enthusiasm—his mucous membranes are a little less rocky than his skin, but he’s long since learned to be gentle even when he’s singing out of his pores with delight. Yondu’s going slow, anyway; pulling at Marty’s lip one moment, then ambling around his jaw in the next. Eventually, Marty stops worrying about _how to make this good_ and _what to do next_ and just basks in the contact: everyone is here, everyone is safe, and no one has a shift today, so… okay.

This is okay.

And it is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> We hope this brightened your day up, buddy. Snow helped a _lot_ , but obviously couldn't check in with you without ruining the surprise, and pretty much everyone over on the Fourth Legion Discord popped in to check the story over and help brainstorm how to make it better. 
> 
> Oh, and Rocket and Kraglin are probably fucking in the background. We're not sure how or why, but that just... sort of... happened.


End file.
